


what comes next

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: Royal Jamilton AU [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr: Almost Offensively Neutral, Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Alexander Hamilton: Workaholic Disney Princess With An Affinity For Saying The Wrong Thing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Excessive use of afternoon tea, Fluff, Homophobia, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, Less "opposites attract" and more "two people from different sides of the asshole spectrum", M/M, Modern Royalty, Prince Alexander Hamilton, Thomas Jefferson vs Horsey McHorseface, Thomas ‘Okay Maybe A Little Bit Homo’ Jefferson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Thomas has finally gotten together with Alexander. Awesome. Wow. Did he have a clue what happened now?No, he didn't, especially not when the whole 'you're royalty now' schtick came into play.(The second installment in the Royal Jamilton AU.)





	what comes next

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains exactly 12% plot, 60% fluff, and 28% angst, with a touch of h/c on the side. Also, Horsey McHorseface.
> 
> I haven't read _Repercussions Of Romance_ by _Kookookarli_ , so any similarities are entirely incidental.
> 
> Thanks to [allonsy_gabriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel) from the bottom of my heart. Without them, I'd still be procrastinating.

> _Alexander Hamilton: The Picture Of (Im)Propriety_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas sighed as he pushed away the paper he had just filled in. When he had declared that, for Alexander, he was willing to go through a fuckton of, quite frankly, unnecessary paperwork, he hadn't expected quite _this_ much paperwork.

One of them was the formal declaration of his relationship with Alexander, as well as a questionnaire that would have put NSA’s hidden surveillance to shame. Some of the questions were obviously for security reasons—traumatic memories or possible scandals that might be used against the crown—but others remained a mystery. Thomas couldn't figure out why the MI5 needed to know if favourite dish (mac and cheese), or his preferred style of clothing (anything, really, as long as it was polished). It was beginning to creep him out.

The door opened suddenly, startling Thomas. Alexander barged in, a wide smile on his face. “Good morning!” the redhead chirped with more energy than Thomas felt.

Thomas put down the pen he had been twirling absentmindedly. “My cat's name is Voltaire, I’m driving a Koenigsegg Regera, and my favourite colour is purple,” he deadpanned, encompassing with a wave of his fingers the paper he had just filled out.

Alexander made a sound of understanding. “Ah, _that_.” He didn't sound overly concerned. “It's just routine paperwork. Every resident has to fill this out before moving in.”

“Even you?” Thomas challenged.

Alexander shrugged. “Mine was filled out during my childhood,” because _of course it was._

“And you're not bothered by this blatant breach of privacy?”

Then again, Alexander no concept of privacy. The man hadn't minded being trailed by a bodyguard even on _dates,_ or at least, had not put up as much of a fight as Thomas would have, had he been in Alexander's position.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind, and he froze, staring at the paper in front of him with mounting horror. Did that mean that _Thomas_ would have bodyguard? He bloody well hoped not.

Alexander laughed. “I've got _news_ for you, my dear Jefferson,” he drawled, not at all sympathetically. “You will _definitely_ have bodyguards.”

Thomas realized he had spoken aloud. He grimaced, watching Alexander fiddle with a paper clip. Cleaning his throat, he leaned back in his chair. “Why would I even _need_ bodyguards?” he asked, ignoring how petulant his voice sounded. “It's not as if I will have any duties in the capacity as your husband.”

Alexander tilted his head. “That's simply how it works, I'm afraid. Even if you won't agree to official duties—”

“I won't,” Thomas cut in sharply, glaring at Alexander for even suggesting the idea.

“—you'll still be the husband of the _king,_ ” Alexander went on. “There will be lots of people who will want you dead, for the simple reason that it will hurt me. Through you, they can get to me.”

“Self-absorbed much?” Thomas muttered under his breath.

“And so, to assure your safety, you'll need bodyguards,” Alexander concluded.

Thomas put his head in his hands. “As long as it's not Burr,” he warned. _“Anyone_ but Burr.”

Alexander grinned. “I'll be sure to tell Aaron how much you like him,” he smirked.

Thomas sighed. He rubbed his temples in an effort to stave off the headache he could feel coming on. “Was there anything you _wanted,_ or…?” he trailed off suggestively.

Alexander frowned. “Can't a man simply drop by to see his boyfriend?” he asked defensively.

“Not when it's _you,_ ” Thomas retorted.

With a sigh, Alexander dropped the paper clip. “You're right,” he admitted. “The king requires your presence,” he said formally.

“Since when is the heir to the throne running errands for the king?”

“Since he was heading to you anyway,” Alexander countered. “I hadn't been lying when I said that I wanted to see you.”

Thomas stomped down the pang of guilt that tore through him at Alexander's words. There wasn't anything he needed to feel guilty about, after all.

He stood up. “Very well,” he declared. “If the king demands my presence, my presence he shall have.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “No need to be such a drama queen,” he snorted.

Thomas smirked. “Hello, pot. I'm kettle.”

Alexander huffed. “I didn't come here to be insulted,” he pouted.

“Then what _did_ you come here for?” Thomas challenged, already having an inkling in his mind.

It was Alexander's turn to smirk. “I am thinking of something,” he stepped closer to Thomas, “along the lines of,” he cupped Thomas’ face, “this.” His breath ghosted on Thomas’ lips, their faces incredibly close. Thomas closed the distance between them.

It seemed mere seconds later that they pulled apart, though it may well have been several minutes. Time didn't matter as much when Alexander was around.

“Well,” Thomas cleared his throat again, “I'd better see what your father wants.”

“Probably,” Alexander conceded, sounding not a little annoyed.

Thomas had to smile at Alexander's antics. “I'll make it up to you later, alright?”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“The Conservative Party is not happy about you.” Washington barely looked up from his newspaper when Angelica let Thomas in with a grimace.

Thomas inclined his head. “I don't imagine they would be,” he agreed. “They have, what's the phrase? Ah yes, their knickers in a twist about my gender.” Thomas couldn't help but smirk at the idiom. “My race doesn't exactly endear me to them, either.”

When Thomas dared to chance a look at Washington's expression, his eyebrows were furrowed into a scowl. Thomas was relieved to realize that it wasn't aimed at him but at the party in question. The Virginian wondered briefly whether Theresa May knew just how unpopular she was with the royal family. He promptly dismissed the thought; it didn't matter, not really, and he had a sneaking hunch that the feelings were mutual.

Washington finally put down the paper. “And want to you propose I do about this?” he asked  neutrally.

Thomas forced his face to remain dispassionate. “I wouldn’t presume to tell His Majesty what decisions ought to be made,” he said carefully. He didn’t know if this was another test, and ‘better safe than sorry’ was advise Thomas felt was applicable when dealing with George Washington; though their relationship had improved vastly since their first meeting, Washington was still a loose cannon, sometimes agreeable and sometimes snappy to the point of looking to be on the verge of wanting to banish Thomas from his son’s life forever. Thomas never quite knew where he stood with him. An unsettling feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

Washington leveled Thomas with a distinctly unimpressed look that managed to convey much and yet nothing at all. “Do not profess humbleness,” he said, brusquely yet not quite snapping.

Thomas blinked. “Have I done anything to displease you?” That would certainly be a new record, Thomas figured.

Washington snorted in an undignified manner. “Mr Jefferson, coyness does not suit you,” he reprimanded. “I am sure that you have formed an opinion on the matter already.”

“What makes you say that?” Thomas parried, mostly stalling for time in order to allow his brain to formulate an answer that the king would not find too insulting.

“A multitude of factors, but foremost the fact that my son would not have chosen a partner who could not form an opinion and defend it, least of all from himself.”

Thomas hummed thoughtfully, considering his words in silence. Washington let him.

“I suggest we treat the matter with all the attention it deserves,” Thomas said at last, “that is to say: none. We live in a society based on merit rather than the circumstances of one's birth, present company notwithstanding.” Here, he nodded in Washington's direction. “Something as out of our control as the colour of a person's skin or a Y instead of an X shouldn't affect who they are allowed to be with. They are behaving like toddlers who have not gotten their way, all righteous anger, and I suggest we let them be. The more they talk about it, the more they elaborate on their viewpoint, the more they make themselves look like fools when they can't explain it sufficiently well, all without our input so that we can't be accused of trying to set them up. And yes, sir,” Thomas went on at seeing Washington open his mouth, as if to object, “I know that there will be people who will be swayed by their words, but they would have been swayed no matter what we would have come out with. They _want_ to be swayed, want to see offered proof of their superiority.”

“That's a pessimistic viewpoint,” Washington remarked.

Thomas’ mouth drew into a thin line. “I have just said that I am placing my faith in the dubious intelligence of the general populace, and you are calling me a _pessimist_?” he echoed disbelievingly.

“If the shoe fits, wear it,” Washington replied laconically. He glanced down at his hands, not quite seeing them, his thoughts a mile away, then refocused on Thomas. “You are right, of course,” he told the younger man. Thomas had a sneaky suspicion that he had already weighed the benefits and drawbacks of every possible course of action before he had invited Thomas; that is what Thomas would have done, at least. This had been another test, then, and it seemed that Thomas had passed. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t growing tired of Washington’s perpetual need to evaluate him, though. It felt not unlike being a test subject under a microscope, poked by a curious but emotionally detached scientist to see where his weaknesses lay.

Thomas suddenly straightened his back, meeting Washington’s inquisitive eyes straight-on. “If that is all, sir…?” he trailed off, his words pregnant with insinuations, and it was all he could to keep himself from snapping at the king. He wasn’t an idiot that needed to be examined and guarded at every moment, dammit.

Washington sighed, suddenly weary beyond his age. “Yes, that is all. You may leave.”

Thomas left with another curt nod, as abruptly as he had arrived. Washington’s inscrutable eyes followed him, lingering on the door long after he had left, wondering at the cause of Thomas’ sudden mood shift.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“So,” Thomas began. “About bodyguards.”

“They are non-negotiable,” Alexander countered immediately.

“I hardly think I will be in that much danger,” Thomas protested. “I will still be only an architect.

You will be the husband of the future king,” Alexander pointed out. “Your will be a dignitary, if in name only.” Alexander's fingers began tracing patterns in Thomas’ palm. Thomas shivered despite himself, and had to physically focus on the subject at hand.

Thomas huffed. “A glorified prize.”

Alexander furrowed his brows. “You are so much more than that.”

“Like what?”

Alexander floundered for a second. “You are an architect,” he finally managed.

“Am I seen as such?” Thomas challenged. “Certainly not primarily. First and foremost, I will be seen as your husband; an extension of you; the Grantaire to your Enjolras; never a person of my own.”

Alexander stared at Thomas uncomprehendingly for a second, the cogs in his head turning, before bursting out, “With all due respect, are you out of your _goddamn mind_? You are clever, if nothing else.” Thomas snorted at that. “Of course you're going to be remembered as more than an object, incapable of subjectivity.”

Thomas looked away. He didn't offer any rebuttal, but, to Alexander, that seemed an even stronger objection than any protests Thomas could have raised. Thomas only stopped arguing with Alexander when he was certain that he was in the right but was too tired to try to convince Alexander of that.

Seeing that the conversation would only go around in circles if continued, Alexander switched topics, because, contrary to what Lafayette and Aaron thought, he _was_ capable of assessing a person's mood and act accordingly; he simply didn't care most of the time.

He could always raise the question of  separation of duties, and what Thomas would be expected to do as Alexander's husband later, since Thomas had made it explicitly clear that he wasn't going to be a trophy for Alexander to show off.

On the other hand, Alexander knew that more than one person was going to try to pressure Thomas to conform to the standards for a prince’s consorts—or, more accurately, since they were setting a precedent, the standards for a queen's consort. Thomas was going to have to deal with that, no matter how much Alexander wished he could have shielded him from it. His reaction to those matters would define him for the rest of his public life.

For now, however, there were more important matters to attend to. His mind set, Alexander turned to Thomas. “Have you ever read _The_ _Silmarillion_?”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

If Thomas had to liken Alexander to any naturally-occurring phenomenon, he wouldn’t hesitate to select a hurricane. Case in point: Alexander’s tendency to storm in and rearrange everything to his liking, up to and including other people’s lives, leaving everyone else behind him with mouths left gaping open.

“Okay, work’s over,” Alexander said, slamming down the screen of Thomas’ computer with more force than necessary. Thomas glared at the prince for the blatant abuse of electronics. Alexander either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Thomas echoed. He stood up almost despite himself. “Go where?”

Alexander smirked. “It’s a surprise,” he said before grabbing Thomas by the hand and dragging him to his feet.

“Um, no,” Thomas said, “In case you couldn’t tell, I was in the middle of something, so I’m going to need more information than simply ‘it’s a surprise’.”

“C’mon, _please_ ,” Alexander whined. “I just want to show you around. If you’re going to be living here, you’re going to need to know how to get to more than just your office, the dining room, and our bedroom,” Alexander countered.

“Why?” Thomas asked, just to be argumentative.

“ _Because,_ ” Alex said, “I don’t want you getting lost on your way to the loo someday, and then we find your skeleton in a closet in the post office. It’d simply put a damper on our relationship.”

“The _post office_?” Thomas echoed skeptically. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Afraid not, love,” Alexander grinned shamelessly.

“And here I thought _I_ was rich,” Thomas muttered under his breath.

“You are,” Alexander chirped. “I just happen to be richer. Now let’s _go_.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Alexander led Thomas down what felt like a maze of corridors, every-so-often taking a sharp turn, all the while talking at breakneck speed, identifying the rooms faster than Thomas could keep up. He thought that he had caught a glimpse of a massive book collection along the way, but Alexander didn’t spare it more than a brief ‘and here’s the library, we’ll come back later, don't worry’.

Thomas’ head was spinning with every turn Alexander took, as though he was following some sort of invisible path only he could see.

Some poor architecture student could make it their master thesis to chart this place. Maybe even create an interactive map, with helpful arrows pointing out in which direction to go.

They finally came to a stop at one of the doors. Or, rather, Thomas wouldn't call it a door exactly—it was more like a motherfucking _gate_. Thomas stopped and stared at it. In the back of his mind, the place that was dedicated solely to his job, he  admired the sheer amount of genius that must have gone into designing the thing.

Alexander paused under the archway. “Well?” he asked expectantly, an eyebrow raised challenging. “Are you coming?”

Thomas followed the prince into the room. He couldn't help but feel as though he was undergoing some secret ritual by stepping into the room. The furniture was ancient and well-work, yet clearly well-taken-care-of. There was a couch that looked as though it had been taken right out of Louis XIV’s living room—and for all Thomas knew, that could be precisely where it originated. The table alone was probably worth more than the average annual wage of nine-tenths of the population.

Even the air itself in the room seemed to have an enigmatic feeling to it.

“What _is_ this?” Thomas asked, scanning the room, wishing he had his notepad and pen—he suddenly felt that he should be taking notes.

Alexander's grin was downright predatory. “The war room.”

Thomas froze, his foot catching on the carpet. He stumbled, then felt arms wrapping themselves around him.

“The _what_.” He couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

“The war room,” Alexander repeated casually.

“Why would you even have—” Thomas cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Why am I even surprised at the fact that you have a war room?” he asked the empty air.

Alexander didn’t deign that with an answer. He rounded the table, his hand tracing its surface as if caressing it. He smiled. “You’d be surprised at how many times I’ve hidden here as a child,” he mentioned lightly.

“Oh, yeah? From who?”

“From _whom,_ ” Alexander corrected. Thomas rolled his eyes, gesturing at Alexander to get on with the explanation. “Hey, this is _important_!” Alexander spluttered.

“Of course it is,” Thomas drawled derisively.

Alexander pouted, and Thomas barely refrained from kissing the pout from his lips. “You never listen to me,” Alexander complained, a peculiar lilt to his voice.

Something in Thomas cracked. He crossed the distance between them, cupping Alexander’s neck and smashing their mouths together, the kiss the opposite of gentle. Alexander made a content sound, encouraging Thomas to deepen it. The redhead’s hands clutched Thomas’ suit’s lapels.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Thomas told Alexander mock-seriously when they parted.

“Oh, _I_ am going to be the death of _you_?” Alexander feigned affront, pretending to clench his heart. “More like the opposite, love.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.” Thomas spread out his palms, as if to indicate the sheer impossibility of Alexander’s words. “I think you’re forgetting who the controversial public figure is, out of the two of us.”

“Don’t blame it on me. Blame it on the idiots who necessitate it for me to be controversial.”

“Shifting responsibility already? How unexpected,” Thomas intoned, infusing his voice with enough venom to fell a small elephant.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I do try,” Thomas smiled ferociously.

Alexander looked around. “There’s a strategy room here somewhere, too.” He furrowed his brows in thought. “It’s rarely used, though, and I keep forgetting whether the passage on the fourth floor is currently usable, so we aren’t going to go there today.”

Thomas blinked. He held up a hand, palm up, then started ticking off his fingers. “Woah, slow down. One: aren’t you, as, you know, the _crown prince_ , allowed to use every passage? Two: why do you have a separate room for strategy? And three: wouldn’t it make more sense to have the strategy room close to the war room, so that the messenger who has to run from one room to the other doesn’t get lost in this fucking labyrinth?”

Alexander sighed. “You’re right, it _would_ make more sense to have it closer by. I’ve brought that up a few times to dad’s attention, actually,” he admitted. “Dad says that, since we don’t really use it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It _should,_ ” Thomas said stubbornly. “If there was an emergency and you suddenly had to use it, there wouldn’t be time to move it from one place to another, especially if you have some specific equipment in it—of which, judging by the sheer amount of screens in this room,” he glanced at the walls, on each of which hung three separate screens, “there is a lot.”

Alexander snorted. “Don’t you think I’ve made that argument already?” he retorted. “Dad says no, and he has the final say. Trust me, it’s right at the top of the list of changes I intend to introduce once I take the throne.”

Thomas arched an eyebrow. “How long is that list, exactly?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.

“Two hundred and thirteen changes, including this,” Alexander answered dutifully. “I have three versions of it; an alphabetical list, a chronological list, and a list by descending importance.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

“Also, to answer your previous inquiry, the strategy room serves a different purpose than the war room; the strategy room was created in the 1920s to, as its name suggests, plan battle strategy, while the war room is used for crises, military _and_ otherwise. And while I _am_ technically allowed to use every passage, some of the R &D department is _vicious_. You do not want to get in the way of a caffeine-deprived biophysicist looking for their automated droid-responder that has stolen all of their data.”

Thomas blinked. “I understood maybe half of that last sentence, and I am a certified genius. What does your R&D department even develop? Better crowns?” he jeered.

Alexander huffed. “No, the House of Washington actually funds several long-term scientific projects, among other things splicing of the human genome, using yeast as an indicator of lung cancer, and solving the practical problems involved in the creation of hydrogen gas as a fuel.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Alexander’s innocent expression bordered on angelical, and if Thomas didn’t know just the kind of asshole the man could be, he would almost be inclined to trust that look. “We have enough money that, should the people decide to abolish the monarchy, my _great-grandchildren_ would still never have to work a single day, even taking inflation into account. What better way to use that money than to put it towards the development of a better tomorrow?” Alexander spouted off enthusiastically

“You sound like a recruitment advert for high school students,” Thomas snickered, but he was taken by Alexander’s enthusiasm despite himself. It seemed that it was infectious.

“Wait until you have to give a presentation on the division of the funds and annual investments of the House of Washington,” Alexander shot back. “Then we’ll see how _you’ll_ sound.”

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Thomas snorted. “I have already told you that I’m not taking on any royal duties, official _or_ otherwise.” Alexander hummed, somehow managing to convey his doubt without saying a word. “There’s one thing that has been nagging me: why does your father use Washington but you use Hamilton?”

Alexander paused. “I mean…” He shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Technically speaking, I _can_ use Washington since my official name is Prince George James Alexander Washington—”

“Duke of Scotland, heir apparent to the British throne,” Thomas parroted. “Trust me, I am intimately familiar with your titles. Fallowfield—”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “ _Lady_ Fallowfield. Remember your etiquette.”

“ _Lady_ Fallowfield,” Thomas rolled his eyes, ”makes me repeat them daily for two hours. I think I know them better than you do, at this point.”

“As I was saying, I _can_ use Washington, but that gets rather confusing, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Thomas deadpanned, his voice slow and lazy, taking his time to pronounce every syllable.

Alexander growled. “Well, you’re an asshole, _sir_ , so your opinion doesn’t matter. I like my mother's surname more than dad's, at any rate.”

“I’m pretty sure you have to apologize if you insult someone,” Thomas pointed out.

“Not unless I’m lying.”

Thomas huffed. “That’s like saying ‘it’s not arrogance if it’s true’.”

“That’s because it’s not,” Alexander said simply.

Thomas groaned. “Do the English know that their next monarch is _insufferable_?”

“I _did_ have to go into hiding for over four months,” Alexander reminded him, “so yeah, I’d say so. Besides, you just insulted me back. Who’s the one who’s supposed to apologize now?”

“Still you,” Thomas said with a smirk. “I simply spoke the truth of the matter.”

Alexander feigned concern. “I’m sorry,” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Thomas grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“I’m sorry that you’re so _sensitive_ ,” Alexander continued, smirking unabashedly.

Thomas shook his head. “You’re a fucking terror, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. It's all part of the charm, love,” Alexander fluttered his eyelashes.

Thomas snorted. “More like a _curse_. The kind that brings to life your worst nightmare, and he’s wearing bright green, and it looks _atrocious_.”

“Better green than _magenta_ ,” Alexander countered.

“What’s wrong with _magenta_?”

“Apart from _everything_? Is it pink? Is it purple? It's—it's the Aaron Burr of colours!”

Thomas spluttered. “Don’t insult magenta.”

“I wouldn’t, if it wasn’t so _easy._ ”

“If you’re going to stand here and insult me, I’m going to leave.”

“You’d get lost. The post office doesn’t like skeletons,” Alexander taunted.

“At this point, I’m fairly sure there’s someone who makes a daily sweep to make sure there aren’t any lost skeletons in the mail.”

Alexander snickered. “How do you even say ‘mail’?”

Thomas frowned. “‘Mail’?”

Alexander dissolved into giggles. “That’s _adorable,_ ” he managed between bouts.

“What?” Thomas snapped. “What’s so _bloody funny_?”

“The fact that you managed to utterly _mangle_ and _mutilate_ the innocent word ‘mail’ and it still sounded super adorable. And now you did it with ‘bloody’, too. You actually, honest-to-God said ‘bloody’,” Alexander gloated.

“I don’t mutilate ‘mail’,” Thomas retorted defensively.

“Yes, you _do_. Don’t you ever hear yourself speak? You say it like ‘may-eeeeell’,” Alexander parodied Thomas’ accent.

“I'm filing for divorce.”

“You can’t. Were not married yet.”

“ _Yet_?” Thomas echoed. “Do you plan on that changing anytime in the near future?”

Alexander’s posture shifted. “Well,” he said, uncharacteristically evasive, “I have to think long-term, don’t I?” he attempted a light-hearted grin, as if trying to play off his words as less important than they actually were. “Anyway, you’ve seen the—”

“Hold on,” Thomas stopped him with a hand. “Aren’t we going to talk about the fact that you just almost proposed and accepted your own proposal on my behalf?”

“How about you let me find an engagement ring before we do that?” Alexander shot back quickly. “Because I’m sure as hell not eloping. My father would _kill_ me, and that’s not even a embellishment,” he added solemnly.

Thomas was beginning to seriously reconsider his opinion of the king. “Wasn’t I promised a tour?” he asked. The war room was slowly starting to give him an uneasy feeling.

“Well, there’s not much left to show,” Alexander shrugged matter-of-factly. “You’ve already seen the gardens and the stables.”

Thomas stared. “It’s _Buckingham Palace._ There’s more to this place than a garden, a stable, and a war room.”

“You’re right,” Alexander agreed thoughtfully. “There’s also a library.”

“I was going to say that it’s such a dorkish thing to prioritize, but I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”

Alexander beamed. “I knew that there’s a reason I love you.”

Thomas squeezed his hand. “Love you too, asshole. Now, lead the way to the books. After that, the kitchens, because God knows _you_ never remember to eat. I’ll force feed you if I have to. I won’t have the crown prince of the greatest empire throughout history die on me of _malnutrition_.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Alexander, as Thomas has come to discover, was quite the marksman. He has been training, according to Alexander himself, since he was old enough to hold a pistol, and had competed in several competitions since then, winning every one of them.

In true Alexander Hamilton style, the prince insisted on showing Thomas his skills personally, all but dragging Thomas off to o the shooting range. He fired off a few rounds, all of them hitting bull's-eye, then flipped the gun with an ease that bespoke years of practice. “So what do you think?” he teased, eyebrows raised challengingly.

"Essentially, what you're trying to show me,” Thomas replied, not bothering to suppress a smirk, "is that, if you should tire of being a prince, you could make a decent living off being a cowboy?"

Alexander blinked owlishly, before a wide smile blossomed up on his lips. "Basically," he confirmed impishly. “Want me to teach you?”

Stomach flipping—the way Alexander handled that gun did _things_ to him—Thomas nodded mutely.

Alexander perked up. “Great!” he said brightly. “Let's start with the rifles, shall we?”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thirty-seven minutes later, Thomas was re-evaluating his life choices, as well as Alexander's definition of 'great’. His knees were hurting, his breath was ragged, and not in a good way either, she they're way an ache in the lower part of his spine.

Alexander, too, was looking worse for the wear.

“Stop it," Alexander finally said. "That's wrong. You're _holding_ it wrong."

Thomas lowered the rifle. "How _am_ I supposed to hold it, then?" he challenged.

"You can begin by not squeezing the handle so tightly,” Alexander retorted. “You're shooting with it, not _strangling_ it. It's not about to fall out of your hand," he criticized.

Thomas forcibly relaxed his grip. "Now?" he asked, looking at Alexander expectantly.

Alexander studied Thomas' stance disparagingly. "Put your right foot behind you, and bring up your left foot to the front. Your dominant leg protects you against the backlash much better than the other one," he declared. "Now, move your body so that it forms a straight line with the rifle. A line, not a T.” He sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair, which had, at some point, become undone. “Honestly, don't you have to pass _some_ kind of test to be permitted to use a firearm?"

Thomas blanched. "Not really," he admitted. "I mean, officially yes, but a lot of states, especially in the south, don't bother to test your knowledge or skills before issuing a concealed carry permit. They occasionally do background tests though."

"Occasionally?" Alexander echoed disbelievingly. "That's _majorly_ messed up."

Thomas shrugged. "Depending on whom you ask. The NRA, for example, is the main advocate for increased ease to own a firearm."

"You can't tell me no one's opposing it." Alexander crossed his arms. “There had to be _someone_ pushing for tighter gun control.”

"It's not a priority for any major politician. They prefer not to get involved in such a controversial issue.”

Alexander sniffed. “Of course they don't,” he said condescendingly. “Politicians, the lot of them.”

“You're not supposed to have a political opinion,” Thomas reminded him, not without amusement.

Alexander scoffed. “That's _bullshit._ Everyone has a political opinion—even Aaron, though you'll never get him to admit it. Besides, my opinion is that _all_ politicians are spineless, so it's not anything against one particular person.”

“I'm not going to dignity that with an answer,” Thomas declared haughtily.

Alexander grinned smugly. “I'll believe that when I see it. Also, isn't your announcement that you aren't going to comment a comment in itself?”

“I really hate it when you do that,” Thomas told him.

Alexander's smirk widened. “Speak, you mean?”

“That, too,” Thomas conceded.

“I can think of a few other things I can do with my mouth,” Alexander said coyly. He leaned in, as if to kiss Thomas, before pausing a centimeter from Thomas’ face. “But not before you learn how to hold a gun properly,” he added in a whisper.

Thomas closed his eyes with a groan. “You're a dick, you know that?”

“It's one of my numerous talents, I've been told. Now,” Alexander shifted his stance so that he was standing behind Thomas’ back, adjusting his fingers with one hand and supporting his wrist with the other, “let's take it from the top.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas was aware of the fact that Washington was married, and that the queen wasn’t Alexander’s biological mother, although, for all the praise Alexander practically showered her with when she came up in conversation, she might as well have been.

He had neither the time nor the opportunity to so much as glance at the queen for the first week, and even if he had, he was fairly certain that there was some sort of protocol for these matters—‘ _Talk not to thy Queen unless spoken to,’_ or something similar.

It came as something of a surprise that his day was interrupted by a knock, followed by an announcement that the queen would like to speak to him, if at all possible, please. The last part was for propriety’s sake—even Thomas knew that when the queen requested a meeting, one obeyed.

He was led into an open art studio, with easels and half-finished paintings occupying almost all of the space next to the windows. Next to the door, there was a table and two couches, on one of which the queen was sitting.

Martha Washington was simultaneously everything and nothing Thomas had imagined and expected. She was as different from her husband as night and day, her calm facade betraying nothing but more calmness and compassion.

She smiled at him; her smile was soft, creased at the edges, almost maternal. “Do sit, dear,” she gestured, not, as Thomas would have expected, at the couch opposite her, but at the spot next to her. Thomas hesitated, then, when she didn’t budge, sat down next to her, the awkwardness he was practically _oozing_ in sharp contrast with the queen’s seemingly natural tranquility.

One of the servants—an older one that Thomas had previously seen attending the king—appeared by the queen’s side with a tray, complete with freshly-brewed tea, two sets of teacups and saucers, and cookies. “Tea with biscuits, milady, as requested,” she said politely, all but curtsying.

The queen gifted her with a warm smile. “Thank you, Betty. That was awfully kind of you.” Even her accent was gentler than either Alexander’s or the king’s, soothing like balm on a wound.

With another quiet ‘milady’, the servant left Thomas alone with the queen. Thomas has been dreading this meeting even more than his initial meeting with Washington, but now that he was here, he found that, with every word that the queen spoke, his fears were being alleviated.

“Help yourself.” The queen’s words interrupted Thomas internal monologue. She gestured at the cookies—Thomas refused to call them biscuits, _dammit—_ while at the same time pouring tea into the two cups. “Sugar, love?”

“Yes, please,” Thomas replied automatically. He watched as the queen poured him tea. If someone had told him a year ago that not only would he be in a homosexual relationship with the crown prince of the most pretentious country on Earth, but that he would be drinking afternoon tea with the _bloody Queen of England,_ he would offer to pay their psychiatric ward bill.

The queen sipped at her tea, then leaned back, looking both prim and relaxed. Thomas envied her her ease.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you earlier, but this is truly my earliest convenience. I had been in Venezuela to help with the efforts to recover from the flood,” the queen explained, somehow managing to sound contrite even when talking about humanitarian aid.

“No problem, ma’am,” Thomas assured her quickly, wincing at how pronounced his accent was. It was unmistakably Southern on a good day, but it was exacerbated when he was nervous, to the point where his words blurred together and it became impossible to distinguish individual sentences, let alone words.

The queen chuckled. “Please, call me Martha. We are family, after all.”

Why did everyone forget that he and Alexander _weren’t even fucking married yet_?

Thomas sighed internally, before his thoughts came to a grinding halt.

_Yet?_

What the _actual_ fuck?

“Thomas?” the queen asked in concern, peering up into his face. “Are you alright, sweetie?”

Thomas snapped out of his thoughts. “Yes, ma’a—Martha.”

“Good. I had almost begun to fear that something had happened.”

“No, it was nothing. Nothing of importance, at least.” In the interest of accuracy, Thomas felt that his marital status, and the fact that everyone seemed to want to decide it for him, was a bloody important matter.

“Your hair is lovely, by the way,” the queen complimented quite out of the blue.

“Oh,” Thomas said awkwardly. “Thank you,

“Would you like me to schedule a visit with the hairdresser?” Martha suggested lightly.

Thomas froze. “What?” he asked, unsure of whether he had heard correctly.

“The hairdresser,” Martha repeated patiently. “We have one here at the palace, actually. I like his style, and I think it would suit you.”

“I’m not—I don’t—” Thomas fumbled for words, cursing his inability to think around unfamiliar people. “Just because I’m with a guy doesn’t mean that I suddenly want to play dress-up,” he snapped, his father’s words of _“Don’t be a fucking fairy”_ echoing in his head. He regretted his words as soon as they had left his mouth. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean that I don’t appreci—“

“I know,” the queen assured him, her smile never leaving her lips. Thomas was beginning to suspect that it was some sort of an emotional manipulation, meant to get him at ease. “I am not insinuating that your gender preference has any influence over your hobbies or your preferred look.”

“That’s—that’s good,” Thomas managed, choking on the last word. “Because it doesn’t. And for the record, I’m not _really_ bisexual.” He bit his tongue as soon as he said it.

The queen’s eyebrow arched. “Really?” she asked, not unkindly, no judgment in her voice. She took a bite out of the cookie on her saucer.

“Wait, that came out wrong,” Thomas backtracked. “What I meant to say is that I’m not interested in other men. Just your son—that is, your husband’s son—that is, the crown prince.”

“Alexander,” the queen nodded. “And you may call him my son, for he is that, in all but blood.”

“I really meant no offense,” Thomas apologized again.

“None taken, dear,” Martha assured him. “Here, have another biscuit; your blood sugar seems to be low.”

Thomas numbly accepted another cookie— _still not a fucking biscuit—_ and watched as the queen busied herself with eating her cookie.

“Now, Thomas,” the queen said, “tell me about Alexander.”

“About _Alexander_?” Thomas echoed. This, he hadn’t been expecting. Alicia’s father had asked Thomas about _him,_ not about his daughter. Most people would be more interested in finding out more about their child’s boyfriend than about said child.

Then again, Martha Washington wasn’t ‘most people’.

“Yes, about Alexander,” Martha said with her ever-present smile. “I want to know why you feel drawn to him, why you want to be with him. What do you find attractive about him? Endearing? Annoying? Which parts of your relationship do you value the most?” To her credit, the queen didn’t press Thomas; she spoke as lightly as she had when commenting on Thomas’ hair.

Thomas bit his lip. Which parts of Alexander, of their relationship, did Thomas crave the most? To be honest, it was the most seemingly mundane parts, the everyday life: holding hands, the forehead kisses, the quick glances before looking away, knowing that they shared something special, something undefinable. He loved the way Alexander would bite his quills, the thoughtful expression he would assume when presented with a tricky problem. Most of all, he loved Alexander’s mind—the way it worked. Oftentimes, Thomas thought Alexander was crazy and one folding short of an origami, and the things he said often made zero sense, but then Alexander proposed something brilliant and Thomas was just blown away by the redhead’s sheer brilliance.

He told the queen as much. Her smile broadened. “Very good,” she praised. “And annoying? And don’t hold back; I am aware of Alexander’s faults.”

“The way he works non-stop, as if there’s no tomorrow,” Thomas responded without hesitation. “The way he doesn’t take care of himself; the way he puts everything before his own health.” _The way he hogs blankets during the night, bundling up into a cocoon like he’ll freeze to death if he doesn’t,_ Thomas carefully didn’t add.

Martha nodded, and, for the first time during their conversation, her expression turned solemn. “Those are indeed some of his most annoying traits.” She took another sip out of her tea. Thomas’ had probably gone cold by now, focused as he was on their conversation. “Congratulations,” the queen said. “You passed.”

So it _had_ been some sort of test—just like Thomas had thought.

“I would suggest, however, that you visit the hairdresser,” the queen continued sweetly. Thomas wasn’t fooled by her tone. He had become quite a proficient translator between British and normal. _“Do it, or be prepared to justify yourself,”_ was the queen’s hidden message.

Thomas nodded. “I will, ma—Martha.”

“Now, Thomas Jefferson,” Martha smiled. “Tell me about yourself.”

Martha Washington really was something else, Thomas mused. Despite his status, George Washington had never seemed like a king straight out of a fairy tale, like Aslan the lion. But Martha Washington? She fit perfectly. Thomas fully believed that she could be just as good a ruler as her husband, if not better, given half a chance.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas hadn't heard from James since their last text message exchange, when James had called Thomas a drama queen, so he was understandably surprised when a diminutive man knocked on his door and informed him that there was a man by the name of James Madison requesting an audience with him. Briefly surprised at the fact that he merited needing to request an audience with him, Thomas put away his pen and followed the man to the foyer closest to his office.

Standing by the receptionist’s desk, in all his black-clad 5’4’’ glory, stood James Madison. Thomas silently gestured at his friend to follow him back to his office. Only when the door shut itself behind them, did Thomas speak. “Not that it isn’t good to see you, but _what the hell are you doing here_?” he demanded.

“You know you've done well for yourself when people have to _request an audience_ to see you,” was the first thing out of James’ mouth.

Thomas shrugged. “I was as surprised as you are,” he admitted.

They exchanged a smile, before James’ face once again became serious. “Are you happy?” he asked bluntly.

Thomas paused for a moment, actually thinking about James’ question instead of giving him an unhesitant answer. James deserved a well thought out answer. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think I am. No,” he then corrected himself. “I _know_ I am. What are you doing here?” he asked abruptly.

James tilted his head. “I needed to make sure you were okay,” he asked simply. “If you had checked your messages, you’d have known that I was coming.”

Thomas winced. “Sorry about that. But you could have checked in on me through text,” he pointed out.

James’ smile was somewhat sheepish. “I can't deny that I was a bit curious, too. I don't have a lot of friends who seduce foreign royalty.”

“That's a bit surprising,” Thomas commented idly, “given your job.”

“You'd think that, wouldn't you?” James agreed dryly. “But no, I've only briefly met King William-Alexander.”

Thomas scrunched up his nose. “That's the pilot one, isn't it?”

James smiled approvingly. “I see you've read up on your royalty. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were interested in the subject,” he teased.

Thomas scoffed in derision.  “More like I’m being grilled on it for three hours straight every day. It would be shameful if the consort of the crown prince was completely ignorant,” he recited, sounding as though he was quoting someone.

“Well,” James said, a lilt to his voice, “as long as you're learning, I'm not about to complain about the method. God knows I've been trying to make you take interest in these things for years now.”

“Because you wanted me to run for the House,” Thomas countered. “I've told you several times that public speaking doesn’t agree with me.”

James sighed. “I know that your social anxiety feels nearly crippling at times,” he began slowly, carefully wording his words, almost as if he were making a public statement, “and I won't pretend that it will be miraculously get better the more you practice, or that you won't have days when all you want is to quit, or curl up in your room and just _scream_ , but I can promise you that it will be worth it. The job may not seem rewarding—fighting tooth and nail to get anything passed, and being insulted at every turn by the very people whose lives you are trying to improve—but it _is._ The feeling you get when you succeed in passing something you really believe in—something you _know_ will make a difference? Nothing can beat that.” James’ voice was passionate at the end.

“Besides,” James’ voice suddenly shifted, “you know me. I told you I'd come if you didn't answer, and here I am. So, pray tell, Mr Jefferson,” here, James let a small smile play on his lips, “what is it like to dine with a king?”

“What is it like to dine with a president, Senator Madison?” Thomas countered. “Unless I'm wrong, the Senate Minority Leader _is_ invited to an annual dinner at the White House.”

James snorted. “Touché,” he taunted. “It had not been as amusing without your presence. I had no partner to mock the other invitees with.”

Thomas’ gaze darkened. “It's not the sort of gathering I would particularly enjoy.”

James turned away, brushing his fingers through his hair. “I know,” he breathed quietly. With another sigh, he spun back to face his friend. “Even if I wish you had gone into politics, because you have a keen mind and a natural talent for convincing people whenever you feel passionate about something, I respect your choice. Your dislike of people is part of you, and I don't want you to change; you’re my closest friend, and I rather like you just as you are. Though it _does_ make me wonder how your attitude towards people will coincide with your public persona, which I'm sure your prince has already told you is unavoidable.”

Thomas couldn't help the flush that crept up onto his face at the implication that Alexander was ‘his’ anything, nor the not entirely unpleasant feeling in his lower gut. Judging by James’ smirk, it hadn't gone unnoticed. “You're funny when you're blushing,” James decided. “Even funnier when you try to hide it, because you're so very _obvious_ about it.”

“I am _not_ ,” Thomas protested.

“I have photographic evidence to prove otherwise.” James tapped suggestively on his phone screen a few times.

A chuckle was heard from the doorway, and a voice said, “I've got to agree with your friend, love. You're adorable when you blush.”

Thomas spun around, and was greeted with the sight of Alexander leaning against the doorway, an unrepentant grin on his face.

Thomas felt a grin tugging at his lips at the sight of the prince. He bit his lip to contain it. “Don't you have some sort of duty that needs attending to?”

Alexander shook his head. “Not at the moment.” He stepped fully into the room, glancing curiously at James. “Alexander Hamilton,” he introduced himself. Thomas chose not to comment on the lack of a title.

James shook Alexander's hand. “James Madison.” No ‘Senator' either, Thomas noted. Maybe it was an etiquette thing not to mention your titles when the meeting was informal? Why was he focusing so much on what hadn’t even been said?

“I've heard a lot about you.”

Alexander shrugged. “That tends to happen when you're an international figure shrouded in more scandals than Donald Trump. Though I can promise you that stories about the incident are vastly exaggerated.”

Thomas shook his head. Knowing Alexander, he rather doubted that.

“Understandable,” James nodded solemnly. “Likewise, whatever Thomas has told you about our college experience, rest assured that the responsibility rests solely on his shoulders.”

“How reassuring,” Alexander replied in much the same tone. He shifted his stance, facing James. “Does he also do that thing where he pretends he has no idea what you're talking about, so you end up having to explain it until you look like an idiot?”

“ _Yes_ ,” James said in relief. “I thought it was just me. And all the while he's smirking, until you want to throttle him.”

“I have found that I prefer other ways of silencing him,” Alexander's grin resembled that of the cat having caught the canary.

James groaned. “That is something I don't need to know about my friends.”

Enough was enough, Thomas decided. He coughed, drawing Alexander's attention. “As much as I love you,” Alexander positively _preened_ under Thomas’ praise, “I want to catch up with James. _Alone_ ,” he clarified when Alexander still hadn't moved.

Alexander stuck out his tongue, a gesture that was decidedly unbefitting of someone of his position, yet so very _Alexander_ that Thomas chuckled despite himself. “You're no fun,” Alexander told him.

“Oh, really?” Thomas challenged. He crossed the distance between Alexander and himself in a few long strides, then, wrapping his hands around Alexander's waist to draw him closer, smashed their lips together. Alexander made a sound of surprise, but it trailed off as Alexander responded with as much gusto as Thomas had put into the kiss. That was one of the things Thomas loved about Alexander—he was always so passionate, putting this full focus to whatever he was doing. This single-mindedness made for a most peculiar relationship.

Alexander threaded his fingers through Thomas’ hair, his other hand cupping the back of his head. He hummed contentedly into the kiss. The world around Thomas didn't so much fall away as become significantly less important than the person in front of him, undeserving of Thomas’ attention.

A pointed cough from James brought Thomas back to reality. He pulled away reluctantly, reminding himself that he really needed to catch up with James, and that Alexander could damn well wait like any other person. Alexander whined, stretching up onto his toes to keep their lips from breaking contact, but, considering the height difference, the attempt had been doomed to failure since its conception.

“Now, stop pouting and do whatever it is you do when you don't stalk me.” Thomas all but pressed Alexander out the door, ignoring his shouts of indignant.

When he turned back to James, he noticed that his friend was grinning. “What?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing,” James said quickly. “It's just… Being in love suits you.”

“Yeah, _right,_ ” Thomas huffed.

“In all seriousness though," James grew serious again, “before you discard this opportunity, remember what kind of power the royal family, and by extension you, wields. You will have tremendous influence. You could use that, make a difference. I'm not saying that you _need_ to,” James raised his hands defensively when Thomas opened his mouth to object, “but it's something to keep in mind.”

Thomas sighed. There was no point in dragging the same arguments over and over again, seeing as Thomas has had this discussion with James more times than he cared to count.

He nodded. James, apparently satisfied now that Thomas had indulged him, though also aware that Thomas wouldn't actually act on James’ advise even if he did keep it in mind as promised, moved on to another subject. James knew that Thomas thought that his fear of crowds and public speaking stood in the way of a career in politics—which simply wasn't true, as there had been numerous politicians with social anxiety, but James wasn't about to start _that_ particular discussion—and that this was as close to an agreement as he was going to get.

“There's, uh, actually something I want to ask you,” Thomas said at length, his voice coming out in an involuntary stutter.

James tilted his head in curiosity, as if telling him to go ahead.

“Will you be my best man?” Thomas blurted out.

James quirked an eyebrow. “Planning the wedding already?” he asked expectantly.

Thomas shrugged. “We haven't talked about it, but it will inevitably come up. I believe that it's better to be prepared. So?” He couldn't help but glance at his best friend expectantly.

James grinned. “Of course I will.”

“Good. That makes a total of one person on my guest list,” Thomas said, trying to make light of it, but James was having none of it.

“Have you talked to your mother yet?” his friend asked perceptively.

Thomas winced. “I've been putting that off, to be entirely honest.”

James nodded. “I thought you might. She isn’t likely to approve.”

“You say as if there is a chance of her approval,” Thomas snorted derisively, though internally, he couldn't help but nurse a flame of hope.

“There’s always a chance,” James murmured philosophically, “but I wouldn’t say it’s very high.”

Unfortunately, Thomas had a sneaking suspicion that James wasn’t wrong.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“Care to run that by me again?” Lafayette thought that he had misheard. Surely Alexander couldn't be _serious._

Burr pinched the bridge of his nose in an uncharacteristic display of emotions. “You have heard correctly,” he said cynically.

Lafayette turned to Alexander, eyes blazing with barely-contained fury. “You are a _child,_ ” he all but spat. “You can't marry Thomas.”

“Try to stop me,” Alexander's eyes seemed to dare his friend to defy him.

“ _You barely know the guy._ ” Lafayette exhaled carefully in an attempt to keep himself calm.

Alexander scoffed. “I'm hardly an innocent Disney princess about to elope with the first guy who catches her eye.”

Lafayette narrowed his eyes. “That's sure what it feels like, _Your Highness_ ,” he scoffed. Turning to Burr, he crossed his arms. “Burr, tell him to stop being so obstinate and start acting his age,” he commanded.

Burr’s face was impassive. “It is not my place to tell His Highness what action he ought to take, even if I do consider his plans foolish to say the least,” he concluded, disapproval sipping through his voice.

“See?” Lafayette gestured wildly at Burr. “Even _Burr_ thinks it's a monumentally bad idea.”

Alexander huffed. “If you’re not going to be helpful, I’m going to do it myself,” he said haughtily. “I asked you two as a courtesy, because you’re my two closest friends, but if you’re going to be like that, I can manage on my own.”

Lafayette dragged a hand through his hair, causing a few stray hairs to fall out of his ponytail. He frowned at them, blowing them out from his face. “I will not pretend to approve of this scheme of yours,” he snapped, “but as your _friend,_ I'll go with you—if only to be sure you don't do something _incredibly_ stupid.”

Alexander grinned. “I’m going to browse engagement ring. What could possibly happen?”

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “ _Alors là, bravo,_ Hamilton. Now you’ve cursed it.”

Burr sighed. “Have you consulted with your father yet?” he asked in a defeatist voice, clearly bracing himself for a negative answer.

Alexander snorted. “Of course not. He would have tried to talk me out of it.”

 _“Je me demande pourquoi,_ ” Lafayette muttered under his breath.

Alexander punched Lafayette’s shoulder. “Don’t be such a pessimist. I’m not going to burn down the store or anything.”

“The fact that you have to specify this worries me,” Lafayette told him frankly. Burr said nothing, but it was obvious from his facial expression that he agreed with the Frenchman.

“So.” Alexander rubbed together his palms. “Are you up for a ring hunt?”

“Yes, O’ Witch King,” Lafayette drawled. “Let us find a gift for the esteemed Mr Jefferson of the lands of Virginia.”

Burr snorted, and Alexander groaned.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“What about this one?” Lafayette pointed at a ring in black diamond. It had a single crown engraved in it.

Alexander grimaced. “I want him to actually _accept_ my proposal, not run away screaming.”

Lafayette huffed, as if the latter option wouldn't be entirely unwelcome. “I am simply trying to help.”

“Well, you're _not_ ,” Alexander snapped. “So far, all you've done is point at the rings that Thomas would like the least.” He threw a contemptuous look to his right, where a bright-green ring was resting innocently on a display case. That, too, had been Lafayette’s choice, and that hadn't even been the worst of it. “If that's your definition of helping, I'd prefer to do this on my own.”

Lafayette’s mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m just pointing out that this one would look good on Jefferson. It would, how do you Englishmen put it? Ah, yes, bring out his eyes.”

“That’s bullshit.” Alexander crossed his arms. “And what of the ring before? The golden one with a pair of rubies? You can’t honestly tell me that it would bring out his _eyes_. And you are aware that Thomas abhors red with a _passion_.”

“That, in itself, is odd, considering that his interest in magenta borders on an obsession,” Lafayette quirked an eyebrow, silently asking Alexander for an explanation. Alexander shook his head, either unable or unwilling to provide one. Lafayette rolled his eyes with a smirk, before dropping the grin. “In all honesty though,” he continued seriously, in a quieter voice than usual. “I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“And how is ruining quite possibly the best relationship I have a chance of having considered helpful?” Alexander countered. He picked up a black ring, twirling it between his fingers lightly. “Burr, what about this one?”

“It is adequate,” Burr offered the same response as he did every time Alexander asked for an opinion. Alexander stifled a groan. Why he had ever imagined that bringing along _Aaron Burr,_ of all people, on something that required expressing an actual opinion, he had no idea.

Lafayette sighed. He busied himself with studying a silver ring with a delicate engraving on the side. “Thomas isn't good enough for you,” he eventually murmured.

Alexander huffed. “Your don't think _anyone_ is good enough for me.”

“Because they're not,” Lafayette said simply. “ _Nobody_ is good enough.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” Alexander’s hands rested on his hips, “it's just that nobody can measure up to your unreasonably high standards.”

“They aren’t _unreasonable,_ ” Lafayette shot back. “I merely need to know that the person you are going to spend the rest of your _life_ with is a decent person, and isn’t just here for the prestige.”

Alexander snorted, then coughed as something got stuck in his throat. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he assured Lafayette when he could once again speak. “In Thomas’ case, it’s rather the opposite. I'm sorry, Gilbert, but I love Thomas, and you're going to have to accept that. Thomas is enough for me, and whichever of your points he has fulfilled will have to su—”

Lafayette waved his hand to silence Alexander. “I am aware that Mr Jefferson’s attitude towards the monarchy isn’t what one would call warm, but regardless of his feelings on the matter, he would be blind as well as stupid if he did not realize what kind of power marrying into a royal family— _the_ royal family, to boot—would grant him.” Lafayette’s eyes were cold. “And _you_ would be stupid to not to question his motives. I’m not asking you to leave him,” he went on when he saw that Alexander opened his mouth to object, “but I _am_ asking you to investigate his motives before putting your implicit trust in him.”

“Thomas isn’t that kind of a person,” Alexander said with conviction, but his thoughts were already going off a thousand miles a second. What if Lafayette was right? What if Alexander _was_ too trusting? He hadn’t known Thomas for longer than six months. Alexander was a strong proponent of the theory that it didn’t matter so much how long as how intimately one knew a person, but then again, he has been known to be wrong before.

Lafayette raised an eyebrow. “And how long have you known him for, again?” he asked rhetorically, well-aware of the answer.

Alexander had no response to that.

When it became apparent that Alexander wasn’t going to answer, Lafayette looked around. His eyes caught sight of a rose golden ring, adorned with a frankly ridiculous amount of diamonds. “What about this one?” Lafayette asked.

Alexander barely spared it a glance. He had actually considered it in the beginning of what turned out to be a torturous afternoon of a trip, but found that, even though Thomas would love it, Alexander himself couldn’t stand the sight of it. “Your speech, inspiring though it was, isn’t going to make me abandon Thomas, or choose a ring I know he would despise.” That _Alexander_ would despise, in the interest of accuracy, but his best friend didn’t need to know that. “As for my faith in Thomas’ intentions, that is something between Thomas and myself.”

Lafayette groaned. “ _Je laisse tomber!_ Very well, but do not come running back to me when you get burnt.”

“Famous last words,” Burr intoned apathetically.

Well, Alexander thought despondently, at least they made Burr stop repeating himself. Kudos for progress.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas stared down at the paper in front of him in thought, absentmindedly biting on a pen. He had taken to occupying one of the offices, and had spread out his drawings on the desk.

He frowned, glaring at the paper as though it might provide the answers he was seeking. The ceiling was altogether too low, but Thomas was at a loss as to what to do about it. His clients were very strict about the way they wanted their house to look, and they would bring the apocalypse and seven floods if Thomas stepped outside these restrictions.

He usually preferred to work on his computer, but this was a particularly tricky project.

When his phone rang, Thomas started, dropping the pen. He glanced at the number, and his stomach was filled with icy dead at the sight of his mother's name on his screen.

His hands shaking ever-so-slightly, he picked up the phone. “Hello, mother.”

“Thomas.” Thomas could positively feel her judgement all the way across the Atlantic. His mother's voice somehow managed to convey a multitude of emotions in one word. It was a talent. “I've heard that you've moved.” Was it only Thomas’ imagination, or were her pursed lips audible?

Thomas took a grounding breath. “You could say that,” he said hesitantly, careful not to reveal too much. Suffice to say, it had been his mother who had integrated into Thomas his attitudes towards people attracted to the same gender. This was not going to be a conversation he was particularly looking forward to. Damn James for being right.

“I’m waiting for an explanation, Thomas,” his mother said coldly. As if he was a small child having been caught with a hand in the proverbial cookie jar and she was scolding him.

“There isn’t any,” Thomas said simply. “I fell in love with Alexander. Couldn’t help it.” His accent became more pronounced with every word, as it was wont to do when he was stressed. His mother had a talent for manipulating his mood with a scant few words.

“I thought we taught you better.” There it was. The disapproving tone, as if it had been Thomas’ fault that Alexander’s gender was not to his mother’s liking. As if he could affect whom he fell for. “I had hoped that you would choose better. A prince might be acceptable for your sisters, but it certainly isn’t appropriate for _you_.” Thomas loved how his mother assumed that anyone could simply snag royalty whenever they felt like it, as if Alexander had been nothing but a mannequin at a store display. “I knew we shouldn’t have let you leave for New York. I just _knew._ Had a feeling that something would go wrong. I just hadn’t known that it would be this bad.” His mother’s words became increasingly more aggressive, like an avalanche, slowly suffocating Thomas.

Thomas sighed. “Staying in Virginia couldn’t have prevented me from being myself.” He left out the part where Alexander was the only man he had ever felt anything even approaching attraction for. Had he stayed in Virginia, he might have never met him, and never discovered this part of himself. He didn’t know whether he should be grateful for the fact that fate had not deemed it so.

“It would,” his mother sounded certain. “We would have been there for you, your father and I. We would have helped you, dissuaded you from pursuing those sorts of paths. They’re not good for you, not _natural_.”

God, Thomas had almost forgotten the way his parents were—self-absorbed and righteous, always considering themselves above everyone who, in their mind, deviated from the path God had chosen for mankind—or, more accurately, the path _they_ thought God had chosen for mankind, at least. His life in New York had obscured those memories of his parents, leaving Thomas to think of them only as the kind people he recalled from childhood, before they began indoctrinating into him the do’s and _don’t_ ’s of the Christian way.

“I can’t control whom I fall in love with,” Thomas said helplessly. “It’s not a decision you can just make. If it was, do you think I would have chosen someone so—” _obstinatestubborncuriousenergizingmagnificent_ “so different from myself as Alexander?”

“Don’t speak his name,” his mother all but snarled. “I don’t want to know.”

At last, Thomas understood. His mother hadn’t accepted it yet, not really. As long as Thomas didn’t act greatly different, she could pretend that it was just another one of his teenage rebellions, and that he would grow bored of it soon. Mentioning Alexander by name made it more real for her, was step towards the reality where her son was together with a man. That was not a reality she wanted to accept, and she would shy away from it for as long as she could.

Thomas almost sympathized with her. Not six months ago, he was the same. Had it only really been half a year since he had met Alexander and his world had quite literally turned on its head? It sure didn’t _feel_ like it.

“You are a _man,_ ” Thomas’ mother went on, interrupting Thomas’ internal monologue. “Didn’t you love Martha, or was that all just pretence to hide your sinful nature?”

Thomas saw red. He felt blood rush through his ears, drowning out anything else his mother might have said. “I’ll stand for you insulting me, but never, ever insinuate that my love for Martha was anything but genuine.”

“Oh, so _now_ I am supposed to take your word for it?” his mother scoffed. “It is hardly worth more than the word of a fag.”

 _Fag._ Why did it always come back to that? It was curious how a three-letter-word could carry such meaning. It had always been his parents’ favourite insult, used in all manners of circumstances, ranging from whenever Thomas fell short of their expectations, to Thomas refusing to recite a speech he had written. It could also be something as inane as a refusal to move his violin lessons. The word didn’t carry a lot of positive connotations for Thomas.

He stifled the feeling of inadequacy that bubbled up inside of him and fear of failing everybody and not measuring up to their expectations and coming off as stupid and maybe they were right maybe he was stupid stop it _stop it stop it—_

“Hello?” his mother cut in. “Thomas, are you listening to me?”

“If we are being technical, I’m not actually gay,” Thomas murmured into his phone. He sighed, feeling the energy draining out of him. What he wouldn’t give for this conversation to be over. Where was Alexander when he needed him? His presence always either reassured or annoyed Thomas, sometimes amazingly both at the same time, and right now, Thomas would be grateful for either. “I’m bisexual. Mostly women. There’s only ever been Alexander.” He knew that he was rambling but he found that his words were tumbling out and he was helpless to stop them.

He heard a huff through the speaker. “That doesn’t matter,” his mother told him. “What _does_ is that you are attracted to men. You are knowingly committing a sin explicitly warned against in the Bible. You are violating one of God’s very laws. By Saint Anne, you are disregarding everything I have ever taught you, every one of the lessons I tried to instill in you. How do you _think_ I feel?”

Thomas paused. When he thought about it, he supposed that, from his mother’s perspective, it was something worth panicking about. From her viewpoint, she had just lost her son forever. While she was set in the belief that she would go to heaven, she was likewise convinced that, by feeling desire for other men, her son’s soul would burn in hell for the rest of eternity. They would be parted in the afterlife, with no chance of repentance for Thomas.

He sighed. “Let’s not talk about it,” he proposed. “I’m not going to be able to persuade you, and you won’t be able to talk me out of being in love with Alexander. How’s the family?” he changed the subject before his mother had time to object.

“I see what you did there,” his mother warned, and Thomas could almost picture the way her eyes narrowed as she said that.

“Mother, _please_.” Thomas’ words held more than a hint of frustration. He desperately hoped that his mother wouldn’t insist on bringing it up. Besides, he was not a little curious as to his siblings’ lives. Granted, he got periodical updates from them every now and again, but writing to your older brother who was living on the other side of the country didn’t exactly qualify as ‘cool’ by adolescent standards. That was one of the few genuine drawbacks of living so far from one’s family home—the risk of losing touch was much larger, a fact which Thomas lamented. He had six sisters and a younger brother, and, despite the fact that both Jane and Mary were older than he was, he had been expected to be the responsible one, the adult in charge, the man of the family whenever his father was away on business trips. He practically raised some of his younger siblings, and to lose contact with them in an age where communication has never been easier… It wasn’t pleasant.

“Very well, Thomas.” Finally, his mother’s voice softened just the tiniest bit. Thomas let out a relieved breath. “Martha, Lucy, and Anna are alright, though we haven’t heard from Mary in a while. Elizabeth is still seeing that therapist. I think he’s good for her, if I’m honest, and I don’t say that very often, now do I? Randolph’s grades are falling again, and your father and I are at our wits’ ends as to what to do about it. Jane’s wedding will probably be postponed because that fiancé of hers—Albert, you know, the blond one?—has ordered lilies. Lilies! If he wanted to kill me, he might just get it over and done with, instead of trying to induce some sort of allergic reaction!”

Thomas’ mother went on, her monologue turning into a verbal waterfall, her words cascading onto Thomas in waves. Thomas let them wash over him. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped: when Thomas had made it clear that he was not going to change his mind about his life choices and that any further discussion would be futile, she was more than happy to focus on other parts of their family—almost as if talking about everything else would help her forget how much of a family disappointment Thomas was.

Thomas tuned back into the conversation.

“And anyway, it's not like Peter doesn't know that it's one of the Jefferson Thanksgiving traditions,” his mother went on. “You'd think he was new to this, with all the care he's showing.”

“Mother,” Thomas finally got in edgewise. “Do you—”

His mother paused. “Yes, Thomas?” she sighed in annoyance, as though angry at being forcibly reminded of Thomas’ presence, which would inevitably get her thinking about the reason for her call.

“Do you want me to come for Thanksgiving?” Thomas asked tentatively. The last few years, to his parents’ endless irritation, he had always found some sort of excuse—his workload, a lack of time, crappy flights—but it felt like he should make an effort, if only to appease his parents.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was _ditching_ Alexander. Thanksgiving wasn't exactly celebrated in England.

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Thomas felt oddly bereaved of his mother's verbal avalanche.

“No, Thomas,” his mother's words were quiet, but nonetheless as sharp as a blade. “I think it would be best if you stayed away for Thanksgiving. I don't want there to be a fight between yourself and your father.” _I don't want you presence there to corrupt your siblings,_ she didn't say, and didn't need to. “Besides,” she added faux-happily, “don't they celebrate that over in jolly ol’ England?”

 _No, they don't._ “Maybe,” Thomas said evasively. Aaron Burr would have been proud.

Was this how it felt to have the breath knocked out of you?

“I need to go,” he said abruptly. “I have so much work to do.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

It wasn't until late in the evening that Thomas entered the crown prince’s suite, the one that he shared with Alexander in all but formalia. He had his own set of rooms, but he and Alexander came to an unspoken agreement that it would stay Thomas’ in name only, for all intents and purposes unused. Even the sheets on the bed were as clean as they had been coming out of the linen press.

The day had gone downhill after his call with his mother, annoyances ranging from spilled ink, because _of course_ British nobility was pretentious enough to use _fountain pens,_ to one of Angelica’s harried assistants—Thomas was still wrapping his head around the idea of the king’s head assistant having assistants of her own—rushing into his office with another stack of papers for him to sign, then hurried out with the pile Thomas had managed to work his way through, all despite the fact that Thomas wasn’t formally part of the royal family, making any official documents signed by him essentially valueless.

In the room, Thomas found Alexander spread out across their bed, one of his feet dangling out, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the canopy.

Thomas cleared his throat pointedly. Alexander didn’t open his eyes, but a small smile graced his features. “You’re back,” he noted.

Thomas locked the door. It ultimately didn’t matter—Washington had a spare key, as did the groundskeeper—but it was the significance of his actions that mattered. “You look exhausted.” He placed his bag on one of the several swivel chairs he had dragged from his suite to Alexander’s, firm in the belief that swivel chairs were the best invention by humankind since mac and cheese, then gracelessly flopped onto the bed next to Alexander.

Alexander snorted. “I feel like my head's about to explode,” he admitted, waving the hand that wasn’t still twirling the canopy. “My father’s impelling me to take on more and more of his duties every day. I hadn’t realized just how much _sheer bureaucracy_ goes into being a king.” The redhead was silent for a split second. “Right now, all I want to do is punch the people who claim that monarchs did nothing but sit on their asses all day,” he confessed.

“I’m one of said opponents,” Thomas reminded him.

Alexander waved his fingers in what was supposed to be a dismissive gesture but came off as the parody of one. “You’re different,” he said simply. “You’ve seen it now, the inner mechanics of it; the room where it happens, so to speak—the inside of the beast. You know how it works, and how much goes into it. You aren’t making those kinds of claims. You _can’t_ make those kinds of claims anymore, not after all _this_.”

Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to disagree with Alexander.

They fell into a comfortable silence, which stretched on. Thomas was content to just stay in that position on the bed until he was physically forced to move. Alexander, for once, shared his opinion.

“Lafayette is convinced that you're just here for the prestige,” Alexander said conversationally. Thomas could almost hear the effort Alexander was putting in to make it seem light.

Predictably, Thomas wasn't swayed. He turned on his side to face Alexander, whose eyes were still closed. “And what do _you_ think?” he pressed.

“You hate royalty,” Alexander said with conviction, but a strange hesitance belied his words. He was strangely distant, his words reticent.

“You’re avoiding my question.”

Alexander sighed. “It’s just… I’ve never thought about it.” He opened his eyes, studying the ceiling with a meticulousness that Thomas was positive hid something. “I’ve never wondered as to why you decided to follow me to England, or why you insisted on meeting me again. Only now do I realize that I probably _should_ have. I have always assumed that it was because you returned my feelings, but Lafayette’s words have made me realize that it’s an incredibly naïve approach to this matter. I can’t afford to trust anyone blindly, not even the people I love— _especially_ not the people I love—in matters like these.”

Thomas hummed. “Lafayette’s smart,” he admitted reluctantly. “Were I in his position, I would have given you the same advice. Have you decided what you’re going to do yet?” he asked mildly, his tone at odds with his feelings, which were a knotted mess. What if he had come all this way for nothing, what if Alexander became convinced that Thomas was only in it for his personal gain? And yet, despite the fact that Lafayette had been the one to introduce Alexander to this possibility, Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to resent the man. He would have done the same, because Alexander’s general well-being was more important than any personal feelings towards one particular individual, and _dear God,_ Thomas really _was_ too far gone for Alexander if his thoughts turned to emotional mush like this.

Alexander turned to face Thomas, so suddenly that Thomas was startled. “I am going to ask you,” Alexander said bluntly. “Why have you come here?”

“And you’re going to trust my answer?” Thomas shot back skeptically. “Just like that? For all you know, I could be lying to you.”

“It’s precisely _because_ you just asked that that I know you aren’t going to.” Alexander’s eyes, even tired, glinted with a perceptiveness that Thomas envied.

Thomas bit his lower lip. He exhaled slowly, counting down from ten to clear his thoughts. “I pursued you, in both senses of the word, because I realized—with James’ help, cryptic though it was—that I had fallen in love with you, and didn’t want to miss out on what could be the best relationship of my life.”

Alexander’s left eyebrow went up, the other too obscured by the pillow for Thomas to be able to tell. “But no pressure or anything,” he drawled.

It was Thomas’ turn to snort. “You didn’t expect me to mince my words, did you?”

“Not really.” Alexander grinned. “I’m hardly a proponent of sugarcoating, myself.”

“I’ve noticed,” Thomas said dryly. “So, does that satisfy you?”

Alexander nodded. Abruptly, he switched topics, leaving Thomas with a metaphorical whiplash. "By the way, have you heard that—"

"If this is about the etymology of the word 'goodbye', I've already heard it.”

Alexander had to smile at that. “No, this one isn’t a linguistic anecdote. Come to think of it, it’s not really an anecdote at all.”

Thomas furrowed his brows. “Then what is it?” he pressed.

“Thomas Ashton has been making false statements about you. About how you’re unfit to be my husband, with your lack of experience in politics or any field even remotely related to it.”

“Ashton? Isn’t that one of the lords in the Upper House?”

Alexander nodded silently.

Thomas sniffed. “Conservative, I’d assume.”

Another sharp nod.

“I know people like him. It’s about the fact that I’m black, though he might phrase it in a way as to seem more polite.”

Alexander took a deep breath. “That’s the conclusion dad and I came to,” he confirmed. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.”

“No, you won’t,” Thomas growled, glowering at Alexander. “I can fight my own battles, thank you very much.”

“‘Thank you, moon of my life, for offering to help, but I believe that I can do this on my own’,” Alexander mimicked Thomas’ unmistakably Southern accent. “I feel the love already.”

“It’s _my_ battle, Alexander—one that I’ve been fighting since the moment I was born. Don’t pretend to know how to handle it.”

With a huff, Alexander stood up, pretending to dust off his clothes before striding dramatically over to his desk. He grabbed his notebook, innocuously lying in the corner of the desk, and got to work, ignoring Thomas with a force so intense that it couldn’t be anything but deliberate.

A silence fell on them—silence so absolute that it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. The only sound was the scratching of a quill—and who used quill these days, anyway? _Alexander Hamilton_ , that's who.

"Wouldn't it be more comfortable to use that computer of yours?" Thomas finally asked. "It allows you to backspace, at the very least."

Alexander grimaced. Without looking up, he replied, "A backspace is an enabler for the indecisive."

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Look, if this is about what I said—”

“No, it’s absolutely not about what you said,” Alexander responded stubbornly. “Is there a reason why it would be about what you said?”

“I don’t know, _is_ there?” Thomas pressed.

Alexander’s fingers clenched around the quill, nearly crushing it. “ _Of course it’s about what you said_!” he burst out. “I thought that we were a team! That we _work together_ and _help each other_!” He slammed his hands against the tabletop with enough force to cause it to rattle.

Thomas gaped, at a loss for words. “It’s not about a lack of trust!” he finally exclaimed.

“Isn’t it?” Alexander challenged. “Because, from my perspective, it sure feels like it.”

“If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be here,” Thomas countered. “Besides, you want me to let you in, but _you_ aren’t letting _me_ in.”

“That’s because my daily activities are classified. That’s code for _way above your pay grade_.”

“I don’t even _have_ a pay grade here in Buckingham,” Thomas reminded him. “Look, Alexander, you can’t just expect me to give you everything blindly and never get anything in return.”

Alexander sniffed. “Love shouldn’t have to be reciprocated.”

“Love is a compromise. You take and you give. Love is a conscious choice that you have to make every day. It’s something you earn and strive for and nourish through hard work and communication.”

“Which you refuse to do. A relationship is about creating a life together. _Together_ , Thomas."

“While also maintaining our separate lives,” Thomas snapped. He sighed. “Look, I feel like we’re going in a circle. At this rate, we’re just arguing for the sake of the argument. You want me to be open about my problems with you, and I want you to be open with me. It seems like either we’re both going to get what we want, or neither of us will. So what’s it going to be?” Thomas asked expectantly.

Alexander glanced away, huffing for good measure. A beat. He met Thomas’ eyes squarely. “Let’s do a trade: I tell you about my day, and you let me help with Ashton.”

Thomas hesitated. Alexander raised an eyebrow—a silent challenge. “Deal,” Thomas finally said.

As Alexander launched into a tirade about one official or other being a stubborn idiot—which really shouldn’t surprise Thomas, because _of course_ Alexander spent the vast majority of his days insulting politicians with various grades of subtlety—Thomas felt his stomach churn unpleasantly. He _knew_ himself, knew the way he reacted, the way James would sometimes scold him for being too short-tempered—in that aspect, he was far too much like Alexander—and he could sense that he’d regret agreeing to this.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“All I’m saying is that it was a major overreaction on your part!” Alexander jabbed the table with his index finger as he spoke, emphasizing each syllable. “You were being taxed to pay for a war fought in _your_ defense!”

“It was never about _taxes_ , Alexander! It was about wanting to be represented in a government, a government that actually _listens_ to our opinions, and wanting the freedoms the _king_ was denying us!” Thomas retaliated.

They’d had this argument countless times, and each time, they both became more entrenched in their opinions.

“ _Technically_ , it was _Parliament_ that passed the Coercive Acts,” Alexander pointed out.

Thomas threw his hands up in the air. “And it was the king who signed them into law! You can’t just pretend that he was innocent in all of this! Do you really think he couldn’t veto it if he didn’t like it?” he scoffed. “If you people had just given us our _God-given rights_ —”

“You’re an _atheist_ , Thomas,” Alexander snapped. “You don’t _get_ to make that argument.”

“My point still stands,” Thomas argued. “We simply wanted to be represented in our government; _instead,_ you taxed us dry, cut off all of our abilities to trade, and shoved soldiers into our homes!”

Alexander spluttered. “Oh, really? Well, _you_ lot, a bunch of melodramatic cowards, decided to play _dress up_ and dump _perfectly good tea_ into the ocean, instead of just discussing the situation like adults!”

“You shot us for throwing _snowballs_!” Thomas hissed.

“The Boston Massacre was a result of serious miscommunication! This is common knowledge! _Everyone knows this_!”

“You’re just upset because your _world-renowned professional army_ was beat by a bunch of farmers with hunting rifles,” Thomas’ lips curled up into a self-satisfied smirk.

“In your _dreams,_ " Alexander snorted.

“They’re called reality, darlin’. You have a winning complex.”

“At least I don’t have your God complex, do I?”

“You’re confusing us again. And Alexander?” Thomas waited until he grabbed Alexander’s attention before he continued. “Please stop shouting. The entire palace will think I’m murdering you, if you keep this up.”

Alexander grinned wickedly. “Love, they already do.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

> _The Dream Couple: A Nightmare For King George VII?_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Some days, Thomas liked reporters. They were nice enough, they did their best to report the news, and most of them even tried to be truthful—within limits, of course. They were a good force in the world; chaotic good, granted, but good nonetheless.

Other days, Thomas tolerated reporters. They sought the truth at all costs, and didn’t care about who got hurt during their hunt for the next big story. The news was delivered to the world at large, but nowhere in the articles was there even a small mention of the people who were hurt or fired or irrevocably _changed_ as a result of the reporter’s behaviour.

And then there were days like these.

“Mr Jefferson, do you have any comment on Lord Ashton of Hyde’s statement regarding your suitability to hold such an important office?” one of the reporters yelled running after Thomas. Her cameraman followed, clearly exasperated with her actions.

Thomas rolled his eyes. He came to a stop, turning to face the reporter, who was visibly surprised by the fact that Thomas actually deigned to answer. He pitied her, in a way—spending her days trailing celebrities, begging for a comment she knew she wasn’t going to get. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Thomas said angrily. “We both know what Lord Ashton is furious about.” He lifted up his hand, and pointed at the back of his palm. “This. My skin colour. I’m too dark for him.” He laughed hollowly. “Well, you can tell Lord Ashton of Fuckville, Nowhere, that he can stick his ‘statement’ up his _unelected_ ass. If I recall my lordship lessons correctly, the baronship of Hyde is a _hereditary_ peerage. He literally has no room to talk. And last but not least, I don’t know why he’s complaining. I’m on his side of the isle; I’m Republican.”

Only after he finished, did Thomas remember that he was in all probability on national, if not _inter_ national, television. His anxiety kicked in. Luckily, it was in that moment that the British Secret Service, whose name he really should make it a point to learn, swooped in and created a barrier between Thomas and the sea of cameras, leaving the Virginian in blessed silence, pierced only by the occasional shout that broke through the rest of the voices before drowning in them again.

“Mr Jefferson,” one of the agents gestured at an open car door. “Please get in.”

Thomas did as told. Everything around him was still a little fuzzy and muffled. It was like looking at the world through a fog. He was isolated from all external sensations, and it was as blissful as it was excruciating, because Thomas knew that, even now, something was happening around him and he had no control over it and he couldn’t change it and there wa—

“Mr Jefferson,” a voice broke through, “we’re here.” It was the same agent as before who opened the door.

Thomas stepped out onto Buckingham’s private parking lot. There were very few people milling around—mostly businessmen on their way to or from a meeting with an official of varying grade of importance. A few of them were talking on their phones as they walked.

In the middle of the parking lot stood Alexander Hamilton. Thomas has never been so glad to see him in his entire life. Actually, that one wasn’t quite true. A month ago, when he still thought that there was no chance for him to ever see Alexander again, that first meeting with him felt like a surreal experience. This came a close second though.

Just behind Alexander stood the man’s ever-present shadow. For once, Thomas didn't mind the invasion of privacy. Right now, he needed familiar elements, and Burr was nothing if not familiar. Besides, this didn't hold a candle to everything else that Burr had witnessed concerning Thomas. Burr had seen Thomas at some of his worst; if none of that had changed his opinion of him, another panic attack sure as hell wouldn't.

Thomas observed Alexander warily, looking for any hints of anger or frustration, _anything._ He didn't need that, dammit. Alexander, seeing Thomas’ hesitation, crossed the distance between them in seconds. He stopped a few feet before Thomas. “Thomas.” The redhead’s voice relayed more emotions than Thomas could discern, in his present state.

Thomas swallowed. His eyes kept sliding off Alexander’s figure, fixing themselves on the ground. He forced himself to look up and hold Alexander’s gaze. “Alexander—”

Thomas didn't have time to finish before he found himself burrowed in Alexander's arms. The embrace wasn’t too tight, but Thomas still found himself gasping after air. He didn’t know why he was this way, why he was so pathetically _weak_ around people. James could handle himself. Even _Alexander_ could handle himself in crowds, and Alexander couldn’t even make a damn sandwich. What did that say about Thomas?

Alexander, noticing Thomas’ state, made as if to let him go, but Thomas tightened his grip around the younger man, keeping him in place.

Behind them, Burr made a show of looking around, glaring at any bystanders who took a more than precursory interest in the pair. A few businessmen looked away guiltily.

Alexander eventually stepped out of Thomas’ arms, though he kept one hand on Thomas’ elbow in an attempt to physically keep in contact with Thomas. “Are you better?” he asked softly.

Thomas nodded dumbly.

Alexander squeezed his fingers. “I saw the video of you. It’s gone”—He bit his lip. Thomas could see the cogs turning in his head—"it’s gone _viral_.”

Thomas blanched. He should have been expecting that. Why hadn’t he been expecting that? He was a _celebrity_ now, Fallowfield reminded him of that every day, and his every action was going to be scrutinized and picked apart by experts and critics and Gold only knew who else. He choked down on the frustration he was feeling.

“How viral are we talking?” Thomas managed, feeling the familiar bubble that was his anxiety form in his stomach again.

“Very,” Alexander said succinctly. “Suffice to say, you’re trending on YouTube.”

Thomas drew in a sharp breath, the bubble in his guts rising to his throat, ready to burst and suffocate him. “This can’t be happening,” he muttered quietly.

“Do you want to go inside?” Alexander asked softly.

Thomas shrugged. “I’ve made a fool out of myself anyway.” Still, he followed Alexander inside, and further into their shared rooms, all but collapsing on the bed.

He felt rather than saw Alexander move around him, stepping up behind Thomas and placing his hands on Thomas’ shoulders. Thomas tensed up, flinching instinctively. The hands stilled. “Is this okay?” Alexander whispered into Thomas’ ear.

Thomas forced himself to relax. “Yes,” he confirmed, but there was no real force behind his words.

Alexander stepped closer, until Thomas could almost feel the other's body heat. His thumbs pressed into Thomas' joints. Thomas hissed. “It hurts,” he snapped.

“You’re too tense,” Alexander informed him, still keeping his voice low—not that anybody would overhear their conversation, what with Burr standing guard like a loyal watchdog.

“I wonder why,” Thomas scoffed.

“You can’t blame it on me this time. I wasn’t even there.”

“I’m not trying to blame it on _anyone,_ ” Thomas insisted. “Except maybe that reporter.”

"So you won't admit that _your_ actions were nothing short of idiotic?" Alexander pressed his right thumb harder than necessary, resulting in another hiss from Thomas.

“Stop mistreating me.”

“I’m not _mistreating_ you. I’m trying to _help_ you. Then again,” Alexander retorted, “you might not be able to tell the difference, Mr I Can Handle My Own Business.”

“That’s rich, coming from _you_.” Thomas shifted his posture, partly because sitting for too long in the same position was making him nervous, and partly to escape Alexander’s tormenting palms.

His action had the opposite effect: Alexander’s hands gripped Thomas’ shoulder even firmer. “Would you _stop fidgeting_?” his boyfriend snapped. “Your trapezius muscle is beyond stiff. It’s all the stress you’ve been under. Let me help with this. I promise that it won’t kill you.”

“That’s not—I’m not—I know it won’t kill me,” Thomas spat, frustration infused into his every word. “I think everyone forgets that I haven’t grown up in a fucking palace. This is new for me too.”

“Nobody’s forgetting that,” Alexander assured Thomas, the sharpness in his voice abating. “I think everyone would be a little overwhelmed in your position.”

“And then that complete and utter _asshat_ made that statement, which literally everyone knows is about me being black, and goes on about how I am ‘unfit to serve Britain and her citizens’—which I hadn't planned to do in the first place, but that doesn't change the matter at hand! He has _no room_ to speak of about who deserves to be in charge when he literally inherited his political power from his father! He wasn't even fucking _elected_!” Thomas shouted in frustration.

Alexander sighed. “You've said that already.”

“What's more: most of the seats in the House of Lords are inherited! What if we get a person in charge who gives absolutely no fucks about ‘Britain and her citizens’?” Thomas parodied Ashton's words. “And then there's the fact that the seats that aren't inherited are appointed for _life_. You do know what that means, right? It means that as soon as someone is appointed, it doesn't matter how much they screw up; they can't be ousted or disposed of.”

“Neither of us can change that fact,” Alexander said simply. “It's simply how our system of government works, and with how much people around here love their traditions, I wouldn't count on the hereditary system being abolished anytime soon.” He took a deep breath. “Thomas, despite how it might seem, it's not as easy as abolishing the monarchy. And even if you _would_ succeed in abolishing this? All of Britain would _crumble_ , and it would take _decades_ to rebuild it to a fraction of its former glory. Imagine…” Alexander trailed off for a moment. “It's as though someone tore up your precious Constitution.”

“Those are two _very_ different things,” Thomas contended.

“Besides, at least America is democratic in theory, if not always in practice. This?” He gestured around them. “It's not a democratic system of government.”

“We're not a _democrac_ y, Thomas. We haven't ever been. We’re a constitutional monarchy.” Alexander's voice was hard, all traces of its earlier amusement gone. “I'm literally a prince, and you would do well to remember that every now and again.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you are open about your opinions—hell, you literally _scream_ out your views for the world to hear, and bring a megaphone if you aren’t loud enough—yet you scold _me_ for expressing myself?” Thomas growled as he rounded on Alexander.

“I express opinions about everything _but_ the aristocracy, because I can’t undermine my own position,” Alexander shot back.

“It actually sounds like something you’d do. You’d dig your own grave and lie in it, just to prove that you _can_.”

“It’s not funny anymore, Thomas. I love the people, but I can’t serve them if I’m ousted from my position by my own boyfriend’s words, because, as you so eloquently pointed out, to get anywhere in this country politically speaking, you need to _inherit_ your position, and I don’t exactly have any seats in either of the Houses lined up for the taking,” Alexander pointed out. “I can’t be shooting myself in the foot. Even if I didn’t support the monarchy—which I do, and I think you’re blind not to see that the stability and safety net it creates far outweighs any possible drawbacks—I have to pretend to support it in order to be able to change anything of value.

“That’s what you need to do, Thomas—pretend you like the monarchy, or at least don’t criticize it at every turn.”

“I would personally begin spouting Democratic propaganda before I came out in support of the monarchy,” Thomas said haughtily.

Alexander shook his head. “I’m not telling you to actively _support_ the monarchy, but try not to flaunt the fact that you are against it.”

“So what?” Thomas asked derisively. “You, Alexander Hamilton, arguably the public person the most transparent about his beliefs, are telling me to _shut up_ about my opinions in order to further my own chances? How very Burr of you.” The corners of his mouth twisted into the mockery of a smile.

Alexander glared. “Don’t compare me to Aaron Burr. He’s almost offensively neutral.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?” Thomas challenged. “Shut up?”

“Don’t actively bring it up every chance you get.”

“That’s not even what happened!” Thomas threw up his hands in anger. “She explicitly asked me about—”

“You and I remember her question _very_ differently,” Alexander said coldly. “As far as I can recall, she asked you about a response to Ashton’s statement. _You_ were the one to bring up your views on the monarchy. Nobody bloody asked you to.”

“Says the guy who, when accused of shirking his duties, came out as bisexual. You are the _embodiment_ of oversharing.”

Alexander gaped, visibly fumbling for words. “Do as I say, not as I do,” he finally spluttered.

“You had no problem with me expressing my opinions before,” Thomas taunted.

Alexander positively growled. “That was in private. Are you honestly so stupid that you can’t tell the difference between private and public?”can’t fathom that there are things that you can say in private but not in public? I’m fine with any problems or critique you may give in private, but in public, we have to present a united front. At least on this topic.”

Thomas shook his head. “For someone who professes the freedom of speech, you sure limit mine. You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Alexander.” He stood up abruptly. “I need air. Don’t follow me.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Oliver looked up from the papers he was filing. “Did you just see that?”

“If by ‘that’ you mean His Highness Prince Thomas walking around like a zombie,” Charlie intoned, switching her grip on the mop, “then yes,” she confirmed.

“Technically, he’s not a prince,” Oliver pointed out.

“Not _yet_ ,” Charlie agreed, “but it’s just a matter of time. We all know it. The chief cook has even begun bickering about the reception menu with the king.”

Oliver shook his head. “Not if this is it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Not if this is the one that does them in.”

“ _Do_ you think this is the one that does them in?” Charlie asked, worry seeping through her words. “I mean, there was the one last week—”

“The one about the taxation?” Oliver cut in.

“No, the one about the revolution,” Charlie said offhandedly, “but we both know it was one of their flirty ones. You know, foreplay,” she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t remind me,” Oliver shuddered. “There are some things I do not need to know about people, be it the crown prince or the cashier from my grocery store.”

Charlie giggled, then sobered up when she remembered the situation at hand. “But what if this is _it_?” she repeated. “What if they break up?”

“Then they break up,” Oliver said simply. “It’s really none of our business, Miss Cotesworth Pinckney.”

Charlie glowered at Oliver. Her grip on the handle tightened. “Tell me one thing, Wolcott,” she demanded. “Would you honestly like to go back to the pre-Thomas Jefferson days? The prince either nearly worked himself into an early grave, or did nothing at all. It’s about bloody time he finds someone who can cull his moods,” she said decisively.

Oliver snorted. “More like someone who enables his workaholic tendencies,” he said skeptically. “Think of it like that: would you introduce a known drug addict to a new drug dealer?”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. Her posture shifted, becoming more defensive. “So what you’re saying is that you don’t like Mr Jefferson.” Her words were laced with disapproval.

“That’s not what I said, so stop putting words in my mouth,” Oliver retorted. “I simply don’t think it’d be the end of the world if the relationship doesn’t last. There are others.”

“None of them would be nearly as suitable for Prince Alexander as Mr Jefferson is,” Charlie argued. “The two just… click. They understand each other seamlessly; they even think on the same wavelengths.”

“You’re putting far too much thought into this,” Oliver remarked, pushing one of the books into its proper place. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re maybe being intrusive? I’d suggest focusing on your own relationships instead of fixating on one as volatile as that,” he gestured with his head in the direction where the two had last seen Jefferson. “Besides, if they work so well together, why does Jefferson look as if someone’s just shot his dog?”

“Because he doesn't like monarchy—everyone knows that. But he tolerates it anyway, for Alexander’s sake,” Charlie said starry-eyed. “He loves him _so much,_ Oliver, and this is only one of the many ways in which their love manifests itself.”

Oliver held up a hand. “Okay, I’m going to stop you right there, Charlie. One: stop romanticizing something that should not be romanticized,” he began. “And two: _Alexander_? Really? Since when are you on a first-name basis with the prince?”

Charlie flushed. “Well—It’s—I’m not, but what does it matter? A lot of people refer to the royal family by their given names, and I’ve never seen you throw a fuss about that before.”

“That’s because none of the others have an unhealthy obsession about their personal lives.”

“They’re the _British royal family,_ ” Charlie deadpanned. “They don’t _have_ a personal life.”

It was as if a light bulb had gone off inside Oliver's head. He couldn't stop the quiet gasp of realization that escaped his lips. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. Charlie swirled on her heels, fixing Oliver with a look. “Okay, out with it,” she commanded. “What are you thinking?”

Oliver shook his head. “I just realized…” he trailed off, gathering his still-chaotic thoughts, “that it might be part of the problem.”

“What is?”

“The fact that Mr Jefferson is dating someone so renowned as literal royalty. And I don’t mean in the ‘oh I’m a republican and I disapprove of this archaic tradition of inheriting power’ way, though that’s certainly part of it.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?”

“Charlie, how would you feel if you went from living in relative obscurity to having your every move watched?”

Charlie stilled. She opened her mouth, but no sound was forthcoming. “I don’t know,” she admitted slowly. “I’d probably hate it.”

“Exactly,” Oliver said. “Everyone wants to be famous, but nobody wants the loss of privacy that comes with it.”

Charlie had no reply to that.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas wandered the castle, heedless of the staff milling around the place. He thought he vaguely recognized the corridors, but when he looked back on it later, he couldn’t tell where he went. All he knew was that he needed time alone, as far away from Alexander Hamilton as was possible in this _blasted_ building. He needed some space.

He stopped by a set of stairs leading down yet another hallway. He glanced around, and, upon seeing nobody, sat down gracelessly on the stairs. He supposed that it was as good a place as any to brood.

It seemed like an indeterminable amount of time before he felt a presence approach him from behind. Without turning around, he said, "I thought I told you not to follow me."

“Well,” a familiar voice said lightly, “it’s a good thing I’m not good at following orders then, isn’t it?”

"It's not funny, Hamilton,” Thomas snapped, echoing Alexander’s earlier words. When their eyes met, Thomas’ eyes were brimming with fury. “You refuse to listen to me; you don’t even _try_ to see things from my point of view; you purposefully ignore my wishes; and you aren’t even repentant,” he spat.

“Fine,” Alexander retorted in the same voice. “Do you want to know why I followed you? Because you _promised me,_ ” he reminisced bitterly. “You promised me that we would deal with this together. As a team. As a _couple._ " His anger had abated, leaving behind only disappointment, and damn if it wasn’t harder to deal with than pure anger.

“Well, I lied,” Thomas growled. “Sue me for all I care. Just leave me alone. I don’t need your holier-than-thou attitude when you’re exactly the same.”

“Unlike _you,_ I actually kept my promise,” Alexander interrupted. The apathy in his voice cut into Thomas deeper than he would have liked to admit.

“For how long? A day? A week?” Thomas snorted. “Don’t pretend that you are going to come running to me whenever you have a problem. We both know you’re going to shut me out, whether intentionally or not.”

“I’d like to think that I would try to include you in any major obstacles and decisions I might be facing. Something that might, you know, affect you as well,” Alexander said acrimoniously. “For all your intelligence, you are an idiot. Actually, while we're on the subject of you being an idiot," the redhead went on, "pray tell me: why didn't you Google me?"

"What?" Thomas asked in bewilderment.

Alexander rolled his eyes. "Back when we first met," he elaborated. "I introduced myself to you as Alexander Hamilton. I didn't exactly use any sophisticated aliases. You could have simply Googled me and discovered who I was. Who I am. It's not my fault you didn't,” he added defensively, some of the sharp edge coming back into his voice.

“Stop derailing this discussion,” Thomas snapped. “It’s not about _me—_ it’s about _you_ not respecting my personal boundaries.”

“Oh, is it, really?” Alexander feigned surprise. Alexander sat down on the steps next to Thomas. “Because _I_ think that this discussion is about _you_ being leery of _me._ A relationship can’t last without trust, you know, and you aren’t trusting me to help you.”

Thomas sighed. He glanced down at his palms resting on the cold marble floor, mocha brown a stark contrast against pearly white. “Can you maybe try to look at this whole thing from _my_ perspective?” he spoke at length. “The way I see it, you are intruding into my innermost life, ignoring any personal boundaries I try to set up for both our sakes, and then berate me for not telling you my every secret when you are more cagey than your fucking father and Aaron Burr put together. You can’t have it both ways. Alexander, _please_ try to understand,” he pleaded. “Give me some space to be able to have a life separate from yours, and don’t hide everything from me.”

Alexander bit his lower lip. Thomas refused to acknowledge the flurry feeling that formed in his guts at the sight. “I’ll try,” he finally said. “I can't promise I'll succeed, but I'll try. You just—you don't have to do everything alone anymore, Thomas,” he said desperately. “You have to let me help you, not because you need help, but because we're in this together.”

Alexander put his hand next to Thomas’. He stared at Thomas, searching for something—permission, acceptance, Thomas could not tell. The Virginian looked away first, glancing down at Alexander’s fingers, lying innocuously next to his. If he turned his hand, he would be able to touch them.

Swallowing his fear, he clasped Alexander’s hand tentatively.

A genuine, untempered-with smile blossomed up on Alexander’s lips. He intertwined their fingers, squeezing Thomas’ hand.

Moments flew by, then minutes, one adding itself to its predecessor, forming a long line that Thomas couldn't measure. He lost his sense of time a long while ago, so he couldn't tell one way or another.

“Let's get back,” Thomas suggested eventually. “Someone's bound to start to wonder what we're doing in the middle of stairs.”

“Let them,” Alexander said defiantly. “The staff will talk anyway.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Thomas stood up. “ _You_ can stay here if you want to, but I'm going back. My back soon forgive me otherwise. I'm not as young as I used to be, you know,” he joked.

Alexander rolled his eyes, but mirrored Thomas’ movement. ‘You're thirty-one, love. You aren't _old._ ”

“Tell that to my back.”

“You know,” Alexander said conversationally, beginning to walk in the direction of their shared quarters, his hand still in Thomas’, “if you'd join me for horseback riding every now and again, I'm sure your back wouldn't be complaining every time you sit down. I'm sure Aemon would love Horsey’s company.”

“I'll consider it when I can actually say that name and keep a straight face.”

Alexander stopped in the middle of the corridor, forcing Thomas to do the same. He turned to the taller man, an unexpected smirk playing on his lips. The hand that wasn't already touching Thomas made its way to Thomas’ neck, guiding the head downward. “Love,” Alexander’s breath ghosted on Thomas’ mouth, “nothing about you is straight, remember?”

“I'd admonish you for the abuse of puns, but I don't exactly have the moral high ground here,” Thomas told him.

Alexander's smirk widened. “Kiss me instead?” he suggested coyly.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “If this is your idea of a ma—” the rest of his words were drowned out by Alexander's lips pressing against his own.

To be fair, Thomas considered, as far as 'I was a dick, please forgive me’ gifts went, it could have been much worse.

Granted, he was still more than a little furious with Alexander, and he suspected that the feeling was not unreciprocated, but they would try. They _needed_ to try, frustrating though Alexander could be, because Thomas would be damned if he let what could be the best relationship in his life slip through his fingers.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

"Where's Alexander?" Thomas demanded.

"The prince is currently training his horse," the servant replied dutifully. "If I were you, sir, I would try the training paddock," she advised.

"Thank you," Thomas said, because he wasn't a self-absorbed asshole like _literally everyone else in this place_.

The servant stood awkwardly in front of Thomas for a good minute, her hands crossed behind her back in an obviously deferential posture. Belatedly, Thomas realized that she was probably waiting for a dismissal. “You can go, you know,” he said, wincing at his choice of words as soon as they left his mouth.

The servant bowed quickly before disappearing down one of the myriad of corridors.

Thomas watched her leave, a sudden feeling of resignation settling over him. Was this how people would always be around him from now on—uncomfortable, obsequious, and sleazy? This was one of the main reasons for why he didn’t go into politics; he couldn’t stand the falseness of most politicians—invariably smiling, never saying what they thought or what they intended to do once in office, but willing to do anything to gain power. He supposed that he was a little bit like Alexander that way. He needed to know that there was a line that a person wouldn’t cross, no matter what was offered to them. It didn’t really matter to him what the line was, but he needed to know that it was _there,_ that the person had a set of beliefs they operated under and a set of rules they wouldn’t break.

Thomas huffed to himself. There was no use contemplating things that still might not come to pass. Instead, he went in search of Alexander.

Alexander was indeed in the training paddock, riding Aemon, his face set in a determined expression.

Thomas watched Alexander, watched his graceful movements, and the way he seemed to communicate with Aemon effortlessly.

Alexander either hadn't notice Thomas, or didn't pay him any attention, and so Thomas was content to remain right where he was for the time being.

Alexander seemed to move through a routine—almost a pre-planned dance of sorts. If Thomas didn't know better, he would guess that the pair was practicing for a performance. It was a captivating sight.

At one point, the sunlight caught on Alexander's hair, creating the illusion of a flame. Kissed by fire indeed. Alexander with mussed hair was a breathtaking sight. Thomas had, in all probability, seen more beautiful sights before, but at the moment, he really couldn't recall when.

Eventually, Alexander finished a jump before bringing Aemon to a stop. A grin on his face, he motioned for Aemon to turn around, coming face to face with Thomas, who startled, as if caught in an indecent act. Face flushed from the exercise, Alexander quirked an eyebrow. "How long have you been standing there?" he asked idly.

Thomas forced himself to shrug nonchalantly. He hadn't done anything wrong, dammit. "A while," he said vaguely, knowing that the answer would not satisfy Alexander.

Alexander huffed. “Give me a straight answer, instead of Aaron Burr-ing out way out of it.”

At that, Thomas smirked. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Alexander demanded.

“Give you a _straight_ answer,” Thomas deadpanned. He wasn’t sure whether it was too early to be making those kinds of jokes, but they weren’t making him uncomfortable either, per se. Besides, after all he had done for Alexander—literally following him halfway across the globe, demanding an audience with the King of England, withstanding the considerable force that was the Marquis de Lafayette, and enduring lessons no person should be forced to endure—his sexuality was so far from being in question, it wasn’t even funny.

What _was_ funny, though, was a bisexuality joke.

Alexander blinked. “Are you trying to make a joke here?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Clearly, I’m failing,” he drawled.

“Well,” Alexander teased, “as far as bisexuality jokes go, this one isn’t half bad.”

Thomas huffed. “There’s no need for you to lie just to make me feel better,” he muttered under his breath.

Alexander stopped in his tracks. “Thomas, do you know me at all? Do you really think I’m the kind of person to lie to someone just to make them feel better?” he asked rhetorically.

Thomas conceded that Alexander might have had a point.

Alexander smirked. “I thought so,” he said smugly. “Here, help me feed the horses. It's guaranteed to cheer you up.”

Thomas merely stuck out his tongue in response.

Snickering, Alexander retrieved a carrot from a nearby bucket, and fed it to Aemon. Thomas followed his example, making his way to Horsey McHorseface (a name he still couldn’t say without cracking up). Alexander’s face shone up when he noticed what Thomas had done. “I knew you’d come around,” he positively _beamed._

“I had nothing against Horsey McHorseface in the first place,” Thomas argued.

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Alexander drawled. “The way I saw it, it was equestrian discrimination, plain and simple.”

“Fancy words,” Thomas mocked. “Are you sure that you know what they mean?”

“If I didn’t, I’d simply ask you to,” Alexander paused for effect, “ _educate me_.”

Thomas groaned as Alexander cackled. “Your flirting is the actual _worst_ ,” Thomas informed his boyfriend.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “It gets my point across, doesn’t it?” he challenged.

“All too clear sometimes.” The snark in Thomas’ voice was almost tangible.

“Well?” Alexander asked expectantly.

“‘Well’ what?” Thomas shot back.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Alexander demanded.

Thomas snorted. “I guess it didn’t work this time. You’re going to have to kiss me yourself.”

Alexander got a gleam in his eyes that told Thomas, even before the redhead made a move, that his challenge wasn’t about to be left unanswered.

Alexander stretched up onto his toes, angling Thomas’ face so as to be able to reach his mouth. Their lips clashed, briefly fighting for dominance. It didn’t take long for them to settle into a familiar and comfortable position. Thomas thought that they were getting quite good at this. Practice really _did_ make perfect. He grinned despite himself.

Alexander mumbled something incomprehensible. Thomas smiled against Alexander’s mouth.

He combed a hand through Alexander’s hair, eliciting a pleased whine from his boyfriend.

They were interrupted by a soft nudge from the side. Alexander broke the kiss, turning to stare balefully at Aemon. “If you’re going to interrupt us, consider this the last time _you’re_ getting a carrot,” he told the horse.

Aemon blinked innocently.

Thomas snorted. “Leave the horse be. She doesn’t understand you.”

“She knows _perfectly_ well what I’m talking about,” Alexander defended. He glowered at Aemon. “Yes, you do. Don’t deny it.”

Aemon neighed. Thomas didn’t bother to stifle a smirk. “Methinks that was a ‘no’,” he said gleefully.

“Shut up,” Alexander pouted.

“You’re adorable when you pout.”

“I do not _pout,_ ” Alexander hissed indignantly.

Thomas snorted. “You’re making my point, love.”

“No, _seriously,_ what are you doing here?” Alexander demanded.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself hurt.”

Alexander huffed. “I’d like to think that I’ve got a decent enough self-preservation instinct.”

“Alexander, with all due respect,” Thomas began skeptically, “I’ve watched you challenge literally an entire political party to a duel, which is so illegal it's not even funny. You weren't even _drunk._ ”

“Of course I wasn't,” Alexander said, affront oozing from his words. “I would never shoot a gun while intoxicated. Also, what's wrong with dueling?”

“Apart from the fact that it's an uncivilized and savage practice?” Thomas scoffed. “You might shoot yourself in the foot—and not just in the proverbial sense.”

“Just for that, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” Alexander declared.

Thomas exhaled loudly, exaggerating it for enhanced effect. “You _do_ remember that I have my own rooms, right?”

Alexander snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’ve lost your bed privileges.”

“However will I survive?” Thomas drawled. “I suppose I’ll just have to use you as my bed then, shan’t I?”

“Don’t you _dare,_ Thomas Jefferson,” Alexander waved his finger in front of Thomas’ face threateningly.

Thomas grinned. "Actually, I've changed my mind. You are _sickeningly_ adorable when you try to threaten me."

“Oh, bite me.”

Thomas’ smirk was downright wicked. “Your wish is my command, Your Highness.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“I can't believe you,” Thomas sighed as he sat down on their bed. “I literally _cannot believe you._ His Royal Highness, George James Alexander Washington, Prince of Wales, breaking his finger playing _ping-pong._ ”

“In my defense,” Alexander argued, “It was a very intense game of ping-pong.”

“You were playing _Aaron Burr,_ ” Thomas intoned, as if talking to a particularly slow dog. “Nothing with Aaron Burr is intense.”

“You clearly haven’t played ping-pong with Aaron, then,” Alexander scrunched up his nose. Without so much as a glance or a word of warning, he promptly collapsed into Thomas’ lap, startling Thomas.

“What are you _doing_?”

“I'm tired and I’m sick and I can't write _and I hate it,_ so I'm taking a nap right here. Deal with it.”

Well. Thomas had not been expecting that. He had been expecting any excuse _but_ that, to be entirely honest.

He glanced down at his boyfriend, only to notice that his eyes were closed. Something wasn’t quite right, but try as he might, Thomas couldn’t put his finger on it. “Are you asleep?” he asked quietly.

Alexander mumbled something, which Thomas took to mean ‘no’.

“Aren't you supposed to be, I don't know, _helping to run a kingdom_?” Thomas deadpanned.

"Later.” Alexander pressed his face deeper into Thomas’ side, nuzzling his hip. “I'm hurt and tired. Sleep now."

Thomas frowned, his concern mounting. “How much sleep have you had?” he asked, almost dreading the answer.

A few moments flew by without an answer. Just as Thomas was beginning to question whether Alexander hadn’t already fallen asleep—and really, that itself was a worrying thought, because normally, Alexander took quite some time to calm his thoughts enough to be able to sleep—there was a mumbled answer from somewhere underneath his elbow.

“What?” Thomas strained to hear.

“I said,” Alexander muttered, “four hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

“In how long?”

There was another pause. “Since Monday,” Alexander admitted.

Thomas’ movements stilled. _Sweet baby Jesus._ No wonder it took Alexander so long to remember. “Alexander, that was _three days ago,_ ” he hissed.

“I know.” Alexander didn’t sound exhausted, he sounded utterly _drained of all energy._ It literally pained Thomas to listen to it.

Thomas considered whether getting Alexander into an actual reclined position was worth having to shove him off himself. He decided against it. "At least get out of this suit,” he suggested. “Sweatpants and a sweater are more comfortable, as far as sleeping goes.”

Alexander hummed in agreement, but didn’t make any efforts to move. “It’s cold,” he mumbled quietly.

Thomas sighed. He reached into his bag, fumbling blindly in it before his fingers found the familiar box of painkillers. He made a point of carrying naproxen with him—a habit from back when he shared an apartment with James, who was sick more often than not. Lifting Alexander up into his arms, he pressed a pill into his hand, along with a water bottle. “Take this,” he ordered. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Astoundingly, Alexander didn’t put up a fight. He swallowed the pill and took a few sips of the water before returning to his original position. Careful, so as not to disturb Alexander, Thomas reached over him for a blanket, spreading it over Alexander’s eerily motionless form. Alexander moved closer still to Thomas’ chest before ceasing further movement.

Thomas grabbed the laptop lying innocuously on his night stand. He fired it up, his finger hesitating over the icon with his work projects. Instead, he created a new Word document.

_‘On The Proper Care And Feeding Of Alexander Hamilton: An Investigative Essay By Thomas Jefferson’_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

The morning after wasn’t much better.

"Thomas," Alexander blinked owlishly.

Thomas sighed. "Yes, love?" he rubbed sleep from his eyes, focusing on Alexander. He had fallen asleep in the bed with Alexander still halfway in his lap, the laptop balancing precariously on the edge of the bed. Thomas closed it softly, putting it back in its proper place.

"I think there's a bunny on our roof," Alexander said slowly.

"Ceiling, you mean?"

Alexander furrowed his brows. "What's the difference? I mean the thingy up there," he pointed upwards.

"The ceiling, Alexander. And there are no bunnies on the ceiling."

Alexander bit his lip. "Are you _sure_?" he asked to ascertain.

Thomas frowned. “ _Are_ you seeing bunnies on the ceiling, Alexander?” he asked in concern.

Alexander smiled softly. “They’re pretty.” He turned to Thomas. “And who are you?”

Thomas tucked one of Alexander’s stray hairs away from his face. “I’m Thomas Jefferson, your boyfriend.”

Alexander gasped. “My boyfriend?” he repeated in wonder. “What have I done to deserve a beauty like yours?”

“Argued me halfway to my grave,” Thomas teased.

Alexander nodded gravely, as if that made complete sense. “Your opinions must suck, then,” he said plainly.

Thomas rolled his eyes. Before this, he had thought that Alexander lacked basic brain-to-mouth filter; only now did he realize that that _had_ been Alexander’s brain-to-mouth filter. It was startling to see him without any impulse control whatsoever.

A knock on the door startled him. Alexander smiled. “I wonder who that is,” he said with almost childish fascination.

“Your Highness?” called a voice that Thomas recognized as that of Alexander’s assistant. “May I come in?”

“Enter,” Thomas replied in Alexander’s stead.

There was a pause, during which the assistant in all probability tried to calculate just how high the chances were of him seeing a sight he would not be able to unsee without a copious amount of alcohol, before the door swung open. Thomas applauded the man’s daring, though whether it was courage or curiosity, he wasn’t able to tell.

“Sir?” Troup said carefully. “Is everything alright?” He stopped in his tracks when he saw Alexander’s state.

Alexander grinned at the man. “You’re the funny man,” he told him cheerfully. “The one that always gets me to do the thingies,” he said vaguely.

Troup cast a bewildered look in Thomas’ direction. Thomas dug his fingers into Alexander’s hair and slowly began to massage his skull as he explained, “He broke his finger yesterday. I gave him painkillers. It turns out that naproxen, coupled with an extreme sleep deficiency, leads to a loss of control.”

Alexander hummed contentedly, pressing his head into Thomas’ hands—not unlike a cat.

Troup raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware that the prince had been doing strenuous physical activity yesterday.”

“He played ping-pong with Burr.”

In a rare moment of surprise, Troup’s eyes widened, his mouth falling slightly ajar. “He—”

“I couldn’t believe it either, but I have no other explanation, and let’s be honest, while it sounds surprising, it doesn’t exactly sound _impossible,_ does it?” Thomas countered.

“No, sir.” Troup looked around. His eyes settled on the water bottle. He glanced back at Thomas. “I assume that the prince will be… _indisposed_ today, yes?” he said delicately.

Thomas pursed his lips. “Unless you think that it’s a good idea to let him loose on unsuspecting civilians in this state, yes,” he replied curtly.

Troup faltered. “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Understood, sir.” He fled from the room as swiftly as protocol allowed.

“Oh, and Troup?” Thomas called behind the retreating man.

Troup paused in the doorway. “Yes, Mr Jefferson?”

“Can you please tell the kitchens to get some tea for Alexander?”

The corners of Troup’s mouth curled into a smile. “Will do, sir.”

Thomas glanced down at Alexander, who had once again fallen asleep. He shifted Alexander onto the actual bed, freeing himself up for movement. He shifted through Alexander’s wardrobe for a moment before finding something that resembled a pyjamas. With considerable effort, he was able to get Alexander out of his suit and into the soft clothes. Alexander whispered something, but it was too quiet for Thomas to be able to distinguish the words.

He grabbed one of the books he had been meaning to read off the bookshelf, then climbed into bed, drawing up the covers over Alexander and himself. He didn’t open the book. Instead, he turned onto his side and watched the steady rise and fall of Alexander’s chest. _Alexander Hamilton,_ he thought despondently, _what am I going to do with you?_

 _More importantly: what would I do_ without _you?_

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Martha Washington had kids of her own. Two, in fact. In theory, Thomas was aware of the fact, but it was easier to overlook it when he hadn’t met either of them, and facilitated further still when one’s boyfriend had a tendency to act like an overgrown toddler.

With that in mind, he considered his reaction understandable when he entered the dining room to the sight of the queen and her husband’s son chatting merrily with two strangers. He froze, quickly calculating whether it was still possible for him to back out without being seen. Before he could implement his plan, Alexander spotted him. His face split into a grin as he stood up. “Thomas! So glad you are finally here. Let me introduce you to my siblings.” He gestured at the pair, a woman and a man—one seated next to him and one next to the queen, who sat, in turn, to the left of the empty chair usually occupied by the king.

The pair stood up, coming around the table to greet Thomas. “Martha Custis,” the woman introduced herself, “but you may call me Patsy. It gets rather confusing with two Marthas,” she smiled.

“Jack Custis,” the man added, not bothering to introduce himself further.

Thomas shook their hands, all the while his brain was working in overdrive. It wasn't spoken about out loud, but Thomas was capable of basic math; he understood what kind of relationship the Custis kids had in all probability come from: high school romance turned college marriage falling apart within three years.

“Thomas Jefferson,” he heard himself saying, as though through a fog.

Patsy grinned. “So we’ve heard.” Good to know that the gossip mill of Buckingham Palace was still running rampant. “I must say that I’m impressed,” she went on. “You’re the first person not to be intimidated by our father. Even John, darling that he was, didn’t have the guts to stand up to him, but you…” she waved her hand around, gesturing at him, “you come barging in, demanding to have an audience with father _and_ with Alexander, and, amazingly, succeed in both.”

“I like to think that it’s simply a part of my charming personality,” Thomas said with more confidence than he felt. If the disbelieving look Alexander shot his way was anything to go by, his boyfriend wasn’t fooled. The others didn’t seem to notice, though.

“Now that you’re here,” Martha said, “let’s eat before Alexander decides that food isn’t challenging enough to occupy his time.”

“I hardly refuse to eat because I don’t think the food interesting,” Alexander protested.

The queen raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is,” she disagreed. “You forget to eat because the action of consuming proteins, vitamins, carbohydrates, and fats is bland compared to what you could otherwise be doing with your time.”

“She’s not wrong, darlin’,” Thomas teased.

Alexander pretended to clutch his heart. “My reputation, besmirched! laid to waste! in tatters!” he gasped dramatically, to several eye rolls. “I hardly think I will be able to recover.”

“Stop it, you drama queen,” Thomas said, no heat behind his words. He noticed Patsy looking at them with amusement. “What?” he asked defensively.

Patsy waved her hand in a gesture that would have been dismissive if it hadn't been so exaggerated. “You're just so _adorable,_ ” she grinned.

“Hear that?” Thomas asked Alexander. “We're adorable.”

“You're adorable. I'm _fierce_.”

Thomas pressed one of his hands against the small of Alexander's back. “You're both. After all, what is it that the Marquis de Lafayette calls you? The little lion?”

Patsy snickered. “It's good to know that I'm not the only one to find it disproportionately accurate.”

Alexander glowered. “I hate y’all.”

Thomas choked on his spit. He coughed as he tried to regain his breathing. “'Y’all’?” he finally parroted.

Alexander huffed, crossing his arms. “Your accent is contagious.”

The queen coughed politely. “It seems that we've managed to veer from the subject at hand. We can continue this discussion after supper.”

During the course of the meal, Thomas learned that Jack's full name was John Dandridge Custis, and Patsy's was Martha Dandridge Custis. He learned that Jack was a year older than Alexander, and Patsy a year younger, and that they were both involved in the inner workings of the royal family, Jack more so than Patsy who also had a part-time position as a legal consultant. How she found the time to do both, Thomas couldn't fathom, seeing as he knew how much the job took out of even Alexander, but he couldn’t fault her for wanting to keep a safe distance between herself and the metaphorical trainwreck just waiting to happen that was the House of Washington.

 

“Thomas, may I speak with you in private?” Alexander requested quietly.

Thomas furrowed his brows. There weren't many things that Alexander would hesitate to say in front of an audience. His stomach was filled with dread. “Sure,” he said flippantly.

“Great!” Alexander shot him a brilliant smile. He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “Actually, can we speak right now?”

 

“I want to do something I should have done a long time ago,” Alexander declared.

The feeling in Thomas’ gut intensified. Alexander couldn't be talking about what Thomas thought he was talking about. Surely he wouldn't do that to Thomas—not after everything they've been through. Not like _this._

“Yes?” he asked softly, choking on the word. Alexander did not notice, too distracted by his own thoughts. Thomas was torn between feeling grateful and angry.

 

Alexander led Thomas down another set of corridors, and out of the palace altogether. With every step, Thomas’ suspicions changed, shifting and morphing until he didn’t know where one inkling ended and another began.

 

Alexander stopped underneath one of the great oaks next to Thomas’ favourite pond, if for no other reason than the fact that it was isolated from the rest of the gardens and the palace, giving him relative privacy, as well as the fact that on the sporadic occasions when Alexander invited him to picnics, he usually chose this place.

Alexander turned his back on Thomas, then unfolded a piece of paper he must have had in his pocket. Thomas couldn't read the scribbling from the awkward angle he was looking at it from, but he could see a lot of crossed-out lines, as well as Alexander's telltale scratches in the margins. The thing was that Alexander's handwriting wasn't inherently sloppy—if he took the time to slow down a little, it was actually quite beautiful—but in his rush to get his thoughts down onto paper before they escaped him, his handwriting turned illegible.

Alexander noticed Thomas looking. He glared. “Don’t peak,” he scolded.

Thomas huffed. “I wasn’t _peeking_ ,” he snapped defensively.

“ _Right,_ and I’m the Emperor of China,” Alexander said dubiously.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Thomas said in an attempt to change the subject.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “If you would let me get to the point, you’d find out.”

Thomas swallowed, an uncomfortable lump forming in his larynx. “Go ahead.”

Alexander glanced at Thomas. He crossed his arms in a huff. “What is the _matter_ with you?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to _me,_ ” Alexander insisted.

Thomas sighed. “Just _get on with it,_ will you?” he pleaded.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Alexander said stubbornly. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“I already said that it doesn’t concern you.”

“Everything concerns me when it comes to you. Isn’t that what we agreed on? Working together to solve our problems?”

“You can’t help me with this one,” Thomas said in frustration.

Alexander snorted. “Try me,” he challenged.

Thomas growled. “Fine,” he snapped. “ _You_ are the problem.”

Alexander froze. His fingers clenched the paper he was holding, creating creases. “What?” His words were barely above a whisper.

Thomas closed his eyes. “You are the problem,” he repeated.

When he opened his eyes, he was met with a furious gaze. “What do you mean?” Alexander demanded.

“It’s not—"

“You can’t just throw something like that at me and then say that it’s not any of my business! Please explain what you mean.”

“You are breaking up with me. That’s the problem.”

Alexander’s anger dwindled, leaving behind only confusion. “What?” he echoed.

“That’s what you’re doing right now, isn’t it? Breaking up with me,” Thomas asked, gesturing at the paper in Alexander’s hand. “You've written a moving speech about how we don't fit together. I'm sure it's _very_ expressive," he couldn't quite mask the bitterness in his words.

Alexander gaped at Thomas. He exhaled slowly, then let out a bark of hysterical laughter. “Thomas—” he began, before succumbing to another bout of laughter.

Thomas glared at the Brit as his laughter subsided to a giggle. “It’s not funny,” he snapped. “If our entire relationship has been just a joke to you, let me spare you the pain of breaking up with me.”

Alexander sobered up. “I have been nothing but serious in my affections for you,” he assured the other man. “And you’re completely right in that this isn’t actually very funny. You simply don’t see the irony of your words yet.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

A soft smile tugged on the corners of Alexander’s lips. “Breaking up with you is the very opposite of what I had in mind, love.”

“Then what—”

“Tell me, O’ Philosopher of Monticello, what’s the opposite of _ending_ a relationship?” Alexander replied to Thomas’ question with one of his own.

Thomas hesitated, his mind running through various possibilities before discarding them. “The opposite of an end is a start,” he said. An idea began to dawn on him, with every second becoming more likely. He did not voice his hunch.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Alexander said impertinently when Thomas did not speak. “Is this some kind of petty revenge for that time your sweater caught on fire? Not that I would intentionally burn it,” he hurried to amend. “I’d never do that. Or anything else like that.”

“Stop with the games,” Thomas ordered sharply. “Just tell me what’s going on.” He refused to play Alexander’s game anymore, refused to guess, and, above all, refused to get his hopes up when they could so easily be crushed into dust like the fleeting concepts that they were.

Alexander sighed. “You really _are_ being slow today. Very well.” He flattened the wrinkled paper. Alexander glanced at Thomas one more time before taking a deep breath. “My dear Thomas, you are the best person that I—” Alexander stopped suddenly, frustration evident in his voice. He crumbled the note he was holding in his hand into a small ball, tossing it behind him in a dismissive movement. “Fuck it. Let’s be honest: you are a horrible person: your beliefs are atrocious, you're a massive hypocrite, and ‘the pits of fashion’ that you accuse me of being? Look in the mirror, love.

“But you have a cute accent. I know that you think that my accent sucks, but I genuinely love yours. I love the drawls, the little pauses you sometimes make when you try to sound more clever than you actually are, and the way you twist the sound of words just enough to create something entirely different.

“You're the only person I've ever met who is my intellectual equal. I don't have to dumb myself down around you. I can be as ostentatious and loquacious as my heart desires to be, and I can trust you'll understand and appreciate every word.

“You're an asshole, by every definition of the word. You're abrasive and rude and you have the largest superiority complex of anyone I've ever met—and I'm a fucking _prince._

“And yet, I love you. I love you so damn much, I don't even know how to explain it. You make me happier than I had ever imagined possible. You make me willing to do things I would never have even _dreamed_ of. I look at you and it's like the whole rest of the world grows dark and cold and quiet, simply because it could never compare to _you_.

“I'm yours. I swear to whatever entity that might be listening, I'm yours alone, and I intend to stay this way for the rest of my life, if you'll have me.

“Which leads me to the point of all this—Thomas Jefferson, would you do me the absolute honour of being my husband?” Alexander finished, out of breath and grinning madly.

Thomas could not breathe. The ground was spinning out from under his feet. He was falling. He had never felt this helpless in his entire life— _and_ _yet_.

And yet he didn’t— _couldn’t—_ wish that Alexander would take back his words, not for anything in the world.

“Thomas?” Alexander asked, his voice full of fear and trepidation, hopeful expression deflating slightly.

Thomas realized he hadn't actually replied. He tried to force the words out around the lump that was forming in his throat, but the only sound that was forthcoming was a quiet squeak.

“Thomas?” Alexander repeated, his eyes crinkling in concern.

Seeing as words had— _apparently—_ failed him, Thomas resorted to nodding with such vigour that it felt his neck might crack.

“Oh, _thank God_ ,” Alexander sighed softly, almost sagging with relief. “I thought I might've fucked that—"

“ _Shut up_ ,” Thomas finally managed to get out as he grabbed Alexander by the lapels and crashed their lips together.

Alexander made a content sound, mirroring Thomas’ actions without complaint. Thomas dug one of his hands in Alexander's hair, the other pressing against his neck.

Giddy with excitement, Thomas barely felt Alexander grab his hand. He did, however, feel him put something cold and metallic onto the ring finger of his left hand. His brain ground to a stop. Alexander had given him an no engagement ring. Alexander has actively planned this,  painstakingly picking out an engagement ring _specifically with Thomas in mind._ Thomas grinned stupidly. Alexander squeezed his hand gently.

A loud cough interrupted the two. Startled, Thomas pulled away instinctively. Alexander’s lips followed his, whining at the loss of contact when the height difference became too great for him to be able to reach his fiancé’s lips.

_His fiancé._

Thomas felt faint all of a sudden. He was Alexander’s _fiancé_ now, he realized with a start. He had agreed to _marry_ Alexander Hamilton. He had agreed to marry the bloody _crown prince._ He must have gone crazy from all the tea he had consumed.

Without releasing Thomas’ hand, Alexander turned to glare at whoever interrupted them. His look softened when he saw that it was merely Burr, standing some twenty feet away from them, his eyebrows raised in a distinctly unimpressed manner.

Thomas groaned. “Can't we get some privacy here, at least? We're in the most secure location in the country, if not in all of Europe—nobody's going to try to kill Alexander.”

Burr’s expression didn't change. “I have my orders, Mr Jefferson—or shall I say Prince Thomas? I believe congratulations are in order,” he deadpanned, glancing meaningfully down at where Alexander's hand was still grasping Thomas’, the ring out in the open for anyone to see.

Alexander sighed. “Aaron, Thomas and I were having a _moment,_ ” he whined. “Couldn't you have waited a bit longer before interrupting us?”

“No, Your Highness,” Burr said blandly. “The king requires your presence.”

One of Alexander’s eyebrows went up past his hairline. “This late?” he questioned.

Burr did not reply.

Alexander sighed. “Figures,” he muttered. He turned to Burr. “I’ll be right with him,” he promised. Burr did not move. Alexander made a sound somewhere between a growl and an exasperated sigh. “I promise that I won’t elope with Thomas the moment you turn away,” he said, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. “Give us a moment, won’t you?”

“One minute, Your Highness,” Burr warned. He disappeared into the treeline. Thomas didn’t doubt for one moment that Burr hadn’t gone further than out of Alexander’s sight. He could almost swear that he could still feel Burr’s cold eyes on his back. He shivered.

Alexander watched Burr leave, absentmindedly twirling the ring on Thomas’ hand between his fingers. He glanced down at it, before looking up at Thomas and offering him a smile. “I imagined it would suit you,” he said softly. “It seems I was right, as I often am.”

Thomas raised his hand, studying the thin silver band with meticulous care. The magenta stone glinted even in the clouded sunlight.

“You chose magenta,” he finally remarked.

Alexander smiled. “So I did,” he confirmed.

“You _hate_ magenta,” Thomas intoned. “You hate it with a passion rivaling only your obsession with emerald.”

Alexander shrugged. “A wise man once told me that in relationships,  sometimes compromises have to be made.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “'A wise man’?” he echoed. “Moon of my life, flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It got me this far, didn't it?” Alexander shot back playfully.

In that moment, Thomas perceived, with a sense of certainty, that he could never bring himself to leave Alexander Hamilton.

“How, I will never understand. Now, go see what your father wants, before he decides to decapitate me and mount my head as a warning to any of your potential future partners,” Thomas teased.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Thomas, of all the things that could happen to you here, being decapitated by my dad is the least of your worries.”

Thomas snorted. “Have you _met_ your father?”

“Occasionally,” Alexander grinned. “I promise you that he’s not as terrifying as he initially seems.”

Thomas made a doubtful sound. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said darkly.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

From the very first time that the subject came up, Thomas had declared that Alexander was unfit to be in charge of the wedding preparations. In a flash of atypical like-minded thinking, Washington agreed.

Thomas wasn't allowed to be in charge either, seeing as he wasn't familiar with the many intricate traditions usually involved in a royal wedding—which, when taking into account the fact that the mere fact that the prince was marrying a man was breaking a lot of them already, were important more than ever. _Everything_ had to be done by the playbook—or so Alexander claimed, though Thomas was disinclined to fully believe him.

Washington, being the king as well as Alexander's father, was officiating the ceremony, but he was altogether too busy to plan the entire event.

The task, therefore, fell to Lafayette, who, in Thomas’ opinion, was deriving far too much glee from it. He glared at the Frenchman as the latter more or less bounced around the room as soon as he found out that he had free reigns to plan the wedding however he chose, chattering away at a speed that made Thomas’ ears hurt, used to Alexander’s incessant talking though they were.

Thomas met Alexander’s eyes, and saw an identical look of dawning realization of just what kind of horror they had unleashed on the world.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Alexander tolerated a professional clothing selector. He tolerated having the seating arranged by Lafayette; he tolerated not having a say in the menu; he even tolerated the florist and her accent, which was, quite honestly, _atrocious_. At a food taster, however, he drew the line.

"I'm not having anyone else dig through my food on my wedding day," he snapped.

Lafayette sighed. "Yes, you are," he said for the umpteenth time. "It's _protocol_."

"Well, fuck protocol," Alexander retorted. "We're following it to the letter in everything else, let me have this small victory. It's my food, leave it be."

Lafayette sighed. He spotted the florist heading their way and cursed. He _so_ didn't have the time to deal with Alexander's rebellious fits.

"Fine," he relented. "But don't blame me when you die of food poisoning."

Alexander beamed. "I wouldn't _dare_ ," he promised. “Oi!” he shouted after Lafayette’s retreating form. “I also want _The Rains of Castamere_ at our first song!”

Lafayette groaned. He was discovering that the pleasure of seeing the annoyance on Jefferson's face at Lafayette being in charge of his wedding simply wasn't worth the hassle.

What were the chances that Burr wanted to plan this _putain mariage_?

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Burr watched impassively as Lafayette broke up yet another fight between their resident photographer and the choreographer hired for the wedding. It escaped him what possible argument the two could have when it came to _wedding arrangements,_ for Pete's sake. Then again, this was a wedding of staggering magnitude, so the usual standards had been thrown out of the window within the first ten minutes of planning. The choreographer gesticulated wildly, his hands flying dangerously close to Lafayette’s nose. Judging by the expression on the Frenchman’s face, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Burr glanced around the room, skimming the surroundings every now and again for something conspicuously _different._ Nothing—good.

His phone beeped. Burr took it out.

A text from Alexander. Again. About Jefferson. Again.

Burr barely refrained from sighing. Why he had ever thought that giving Alexander his personal number would limit the number of texts he bombarded Burr, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, Alexander simply began sending his avalanche of texts to Burr's private number instead. Honestly, the man had little, if any, sense of personal boundaries. On one hand, it made it incredibly easy for Burr to shadow the prince; on the other, Burr’s private life way significantly less private with Alexander using Burr as an open line for his never-ending problems.

Burr liked Hamilton well enough—as a person, he was an extraordinarily gifted individual, and as the future monarch, he truly cared about his people—but he could not fathom how Jefferson could stand dating a person who didn't know when to stop, when enough was _enough._

Lafayette waved a hand, catching Burr’s attention. “ _Mon ami,_ can you come here for a second?” the Frenchman requested.

After surveying the room from the corner one last time, Burr made his way to where Lafayette was standing between Ms Tenn, the city photographer, and Mr Aquilli, the choreographer. “Yes, sir?” he asked politely.

“Can you help us settle an important dilemma?” Lafayette asked in a tone that implied the dilemma wasn’t of an all too urgent a nature. His pursed lips told Burr that it hadn’t been a request.

“I hardly think that I am the right person to decide on—” Burr began.

“On the contrary, Mr Burr,” Lafayette smiled tightly. “You know His Highness the Crown Prince Alexander better than almost anyone. Who better suited to making this decision about his preferences than you?” _Either you help me,_ Lafayette’s eyes seemed to say, _or I make your life a living hell. Your choice, Burr._

Burr was not a cowardly man. He had served seven years, followed by another four in the Academy before being handpicked for His Highness’ personal security detail. He had endured things that could, and would, make most men flee for their lives, and done worse still.

Lafayette’s ire, however, was a danger level in itself, one that Burr had no wish to experience for himself.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly in as indifferent a tone as he could muster. Lafayette merely rolled his eyes, seeing through Burr’s antics. “What can I help with?”

In that moment, his phone chimed again, creating two very conflicted feelings within him; on one hand, it meant that he had to listen to a detailed account of Alexander and Jefferson’s relationship—on the other, it meant that he could potentially be free of playing mediator between two people with an almost tangible tension between them that could only be solved by either a bloody fistfight or a good shag.

Burr very pointedly did not roll his eyes at the blinking light on his phone. “It is His Highness,” he explained succinctly at Lafayette’s curious eyebrow.

Lafayette’s lips broke into a delighted smile. “You gave him your _personal_ number?” he teased. “That’s _golden,_ ” he said gleefully.

“I’m very glad that you are able to derive some enjoyment from my pain,” Burr said stiffly.

Lafayette put a hand over his mouth to smother his chuckles. “Sorry,” he apologized insincerely. “You’d better take it, though. Alexander can be quite stubborn.”

Lafayette had a talent for stating the obvious.

Burr glanced at his phone again. The little number ‘4’, indicating the four unread messages, was blinking up at him innocently. He reluctantly opened them.

 

 _From: His Royal Nuisance_  
Burr I need your help  
Thomas is avoiding me  
I think I did something but idk what  
Burr hELP

 _To: His Royal Nuisance_  
Have you tried talking with him, Your Highness?

 _From: His Royal Nuisance_  
Wow geez burr thanks for the advice which I never would have figured out on my own  
Don’t you think I haven’t already tried it  
Give me some credit  
Apparently me Talking is part of the problem -.-

 _To: His Royal Nuisance_  
Why am I not surprised?

 _From: His Royal Nuisance_  
Could you BE more vague

 _To: His Royal Nuisance_  
Yes.

 _From: His Royal Nuisance_  
Burrn in hell

 

Burr closed his eyes. Alexander’s puns were nothing short of appalling.

“You look like you’re in pain,” Lafayette’s voice remarked. “Is everything alright?”

“His Highness is trying his hand at puns,” Burr explained wearily.

Lafayette nodded commiseratingly. “Alexander can be a bit… much.” Lafayette was at it again, it seemed. “You know, he keeps an obsessive tally of our every interaction. There’s actually a list,” the Frenchman added.

“I’ve seen mine,” Burr confirmed grimly. “It’s horridly accurate.”

His phone buzzed again.

 

 _From: His Royal Nuisance_  
No but he said that I was being ‘too still’ in formal arrangements bc I wasn’t hovering over him all the time or something idk burr  
And I told him that etiquette dictated that I could not just act however I wanted  
There are Standards  
Which is when he threw a hissy fit, said something about ‘damned etiquette being too bloody formal’, and left  
Which is Sweet, in a way, because I know for a fact that he did not use the word ‘bloody’ back when he arrived  
He’s been Britishized and doesn’t even know it yet  
Anyway  
Currently omw to the post office because I once told him that I wouldn’t want to find his skeleton there, and I wouldn’t put it past him to lock himself in there just to spite me  
Why am I getting married to him again  
Oh right bc I proposed  
Why didn’t u stop me burr  
You’re a horrible friend burr  
Help me find my virginian burr  
BURR

 

Burr looked up, meeting Lafayette’s amused eyes. He locked his phone, just in case. “Will you be able to handle this alone?” he inquired carefully.

Lafayette smirked. “I can hold my own against a photographer with an overgrown ego. Go find our grooms before they murder each other and make all my plans void and null. I would be very cross if that were the case,” he pretended to feign glaring, but something told Burr that it wasn’t as much a hoax as Lafayette would have liked.

Burr sent one reply to Alexander.

 

 _To: His Royal Nuisance_  
I will meet you at the post office. Don’t do anything rash before I get there.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Ten weeks in, Thomas went back to the States. It had been partially because of work—some of his projects were at the stage where he needed to personally assess them and change the details accordingly, and he could not do that without being physically present at the estate in question—but mostly, it had been because if he had to attend another afternoon tea with Martha Washington, or have another person ask his opinion on whether the topping on the cake should be strawberry or blueberry (neither, as Alexander's favourite fruit was raspberry), he would start to scream.

James had agreed to pick him up from the airport. Thomas hadn't bothered to inform his mother of the fact that he was in the country. He had no wish to talk to her; knowing her, the sentiment was not unreciprocated.

“It's good to see your face,” James greeted him with a small smile.

“Likewise,” Thomas said. He noticed James eyeing the two RaSP agents that Alexander had insisted on accompanying Thomas ‘just in case’. Honestly, Thomas felt like he was being treated like a porcelain doll about to break. “Ignore them.”

James snorted. “I'm a left-leaning Republican senator. Trust me, I know all about the necessity of having a security force accompany you, however unpleasant it might be.”

“You're alone right now,” Thomas remarked.

“The Congress is in recess for the week.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” Thomas pointed out shrewdly.

James got a shifty look on his face. “I may or may not have left them in D.C.,” he admitted guiltily.

Thomas choked on his saliva. “You ditched your personal detail?” he echoed in disbelief. Of all people he would have pegged for sneaking out on their security detail, James wouldn't even have made the list.

“ _So,_ the rumour has it that you're getting hitched to a certain prince,” James teased as he led Thomas to his car.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Official missives do not constitute rumours.”

“You'd be surprised,” James muttered darkly. “Remember John Adams?”

Thomas wrecked his brain for the face to go with the name. “Yeah,” he eventually said. “He was a nice enough chap. I didn't agree with his ideas, but they were interesting.”

James rolled his eyes. “It does not matter how interesting they were, because he never actually did anything with them,” he retorted. “As I was saying, he made a mistake and attached the wrong file into his email. He didn't realize it, either, until he got a mocking response from the Senate Minority Leader about how ‘entertaining’ his notes were.”

“What _did_ he attach?” Thomas asked, idly curious despite himself.

James smirked. “His personal diary notes.”

Thomas opened his mouth to ask who the hell kept a journal these days, but closed it again when he remembered that, oh yes, his absentminded future husband happened to be one. “I see.”

James gave him a once-over as he unlocked the car. “You’ve certainly changed,” he stated finally.

Thomas frowned. “What do you mean?” He lifted his luggage into the car, ignoring the two agents.

“Well, for starters, your accent has changed,” James began ticking off his fingers as he got in behind the wheel. Thomas followed him, calling shotgun, while the two agents were forced to squeeze into the backseat. The taller Virginian had no regrets, _none._ “It’s more British now—”

“It has _not,_ ” Thomas protested.

“—the vocabulary if nothing else,” James went on, ignoring Thomas’ cry of outrage. “A year ago, you’d’ve said ‘d’you’ instead.”

Thomas stopped. He scrunched up his nose—an annoying habit he seemed to have picked up from watching Alexander work into the early hours of the morning on a speech or a declaration, revising it for the umpteenth time—as he mouthed the phrase silently. It sounded… odd, unnatural almost, to use that particular contraction after having been subjected to Fallowfield’s numerous lessons on proper grammar.

“You are a twat,” he settled on saying, in lieu of a response.

“I _am_ nice,” James disagreed. “I wouldn't have picked you up from the airport otherwise. And see? Here you go again with the tea slang.”

“No, that's part of your best man duty.” Thomas sighed, leaning against the windowsill. “James, I don't know what I'm doing,” he admitted.

“Most people don't, when they get married. What you're doing is following your heart, which is better by leaps than a lot of other couples.”

“I thought you told me not to get married to someone I've only known for six months,” Thomas remarked sharply.

James’ eyes were focused on the road as he answered, “And I still stand by that belief. Then again, I'm hardly the best person to judge when you know someone well enough for marriage. And anyone with eyes can see the sheer adoration you and Hamilton feel for each other.”

“I know it's word, but I think that I miss Alexander already.”

James smiled. “With that attitude, I wouldn't worry about the wedding if I were you.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas had almost forgotten how self-absorbed his clients could be. The reminder was like a cold shower.

One guy asked him outright whether Alexander was a better lay than a ‘regular person’. Another guy made thinly-veiled references to his relationship with Alexander, going on about how Thomas should maybe reconsider his life choices. A younger woman wanted to know whether Buckingham was really as lavish as rumours said, and whether the king ate truffles for dinner every day. (The king was allergic to a variety of fungi—a little-known fact—but Thomas didn't see fit to share it with his intrusive client.)

Thomas huffed in exasperation as the door shut behind the woman. What gave his clients the idea that, simply because Thomas was designing their house, it gave them the right to pry into his personal life? It wasn't as though there was a clause in the contract saying that, since Thomas had personal information on them, they were at liberty to prattle on about his choice of romantic partners. It was in his _job description_ to ask personal questions. It was not supposed to be a reciprocative friendship. Hell, it wasn't even a _friendship_ ; Thomas had always made it a point to stay courteous with his clients, at the same time keeping their relationship strictly professional.

Thomas leaned back against his counter, then took a sweeping look around the apartment. He missed Alexander something terrible; he missed his eyes, his mischievous smile, the way his hair smelled like parchment for some God-forsaken reason. He even missed the way Alexander would argue that, on scones, jam went before cream—which was so wrong that it left Thomas at a loss for words.

When he had gotten to his apartment, courtesy of the James Madison Taxi Service, and had gotten his luggage carried upstairs, courtesy of the RaSP agents (James had teased him that he was beginning to even behave like royalty), he had despaired, just a little, over the state of his apartment.

The furniture had gathered enough dust to give his mother, had she seen it, a heart attack, things were laying around haphazardously, and the food in the fridge looked to have developed a culture and invented the wheel at this point.

In short, it looked as though it had been deserted. Which, in a way, it had. Thomas had been in a right hurry to make the flight to Britain. Now that he thought about it, it was an eerily good representation of his former life—hastily abandoned for a newer one, a better one.

He wouldn't have called his pre-Alexander life _bad,_ per se, but it lacked that certain _spark_ that only Alexander could bring with him. Thomas wouldn't trade that for anything in the world.

Thomas’ bed was oddly empty, _cold,_ without Alexander's presence. Alexander looked different when he slept than when he was awake—all of his energy seemed to drain out of him something, or recede, leaving behind a peaceful body, chest heaving up and down, lips parted slightly, red hair glinting beautifully in the moonlight.

Thomas missed that, but, above all, he missed the rare mornings when he woke up before Alexander and had the honour of watching sharpness return to those eyes.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

James returned with Thomas to Britain ten days before the wedding. Buckingham looked like it had been undergone a revolution, though Thomas didn't know how anyone could've _not_ expected this—they had left a Frenchman in charge of organizing the thing, after all.

During Thomas’ leave, the palace had been filled to the brim with decorations ranging from classical to tasty to belonging only on a pride parade. The latter couldn't have been anyone's contribution but Alexander's. It was jarring.

“I don't remember it being quite so… bright,” James said delicately,

Thomas snorted. “The word you're looking for is flashy. _Atrocious._ A downright crime against humanity.”

“Says the person whose entire wardrobe consists of nothing but various shades of pink and purple.” Alexander appeared behind Thomas’ shoulder as though summoned. He laughed, and Thomas revelled in the sound. It wasn’t sweet by any means, nor was it pearly or pure, but to Thomas, it felt like being handed water after a journey through a desert. “You're back.”

Thomas turned on his heels to face Alexander. The redhead drew him in for a short kiss. It grew prolonged when it became clear that neither men were inclined to pull away. Thomas’ hand came up to cup Alexander's chin, stroking it delicately. It had just the hint of a stubble. Thomas could not say that he minded.

A polite cough reminded them of James’ presence. Thomas pulled away with reluctance. “I've missed you,” he told Alexander.

“So have I. Missed me, that is.” The faintest touch of amusement bloomed at the corners of Alexander’s lips. “I'm an impossible person not to miss.”

James inclined his head. “It is good to see you again, Your Highness,” he greeted.

"Likewise, Senator,” Alexander replied. His arm wrapped itself around Thomas’ waist—not enough to merit immediate outrage from onlookers, yet just enough to border on inappropriate in public. It continue to amaze Thomas how, at times, Alexander would be incredibly strict about enforcing the status quo, while at others, he would  derive no small amount of delight and amusement from pressing the invisible boundaries society tried to impose on him. Certain parts of Alexander still remained a mystery to things—and one he was looking forward to solving.

Thomas looked around. “I don’t like what you’ve done with the place,” he eventually decided.

Alexander snickered. “Lafayette figured you’d say that,” he elaborated upon seeing Thomas’ inquisitive look. “I’ll let him explained himself. It’s bound to be entertaining. Though,” he added in an aside, “I wouldn’t be getting my hopes up if I were you. The one he gave me was something along the lines of ‘I do not have to explain myself to you and my decisions are none of your concern’. Almost as though he isn’t planning _my_ wedding,” Alexander said with a sulk.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

The day of the wedding was came all too soon, and not soon enough. It was chaotic from the moment Thomas woke up, which had been at a horrendous _four in the morning._ He woke up with a start, throwing his arm over the other side of the bed instinctively to anchor himself in Alexander’s presence, only to find the bed next to him cold, the sheets unrumpled and clean. He would have bet anything that Alexander had not slept for longer than an hour in the past forty-eight hours.

James was a pure _godsend;_ there was no other way to put it. Only he and, unsurprisingly, Aaron Burr had kept their wits about them that morning. (Thomas had never appreciated Burr’s unflappable calmness as much as he had on that morning.) James had dragged Thomas out of bed when all Thomas wanted to do was go back to sleep, or hide in an abandoned supply closet until the guests would disappear; he got Thomas under some semblance of control and helped him dress; he helped him eat and tie his tie and generally get him to resemble a human being once again.

“You clean up alright,” James finally declared, eyeing Thomas critically.

Thomas rolled. “Tell it as it is, why don’t you?” he drawled, though he was secretly grateful for James’ presence that anchored him in the present.

When they came down to the dining room, they found it empty except for Martha Washington, who gave Thomas a bright smile. “Would you look at yourself!” she cooed. “You look perfectly handsome, Thomas!”

Thomas flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you, Martha,” he said demurely.

Martha turned to James. “He is such a dear, isn't he? I love the dark-purple suit. It fits you, and I’m sure you’ll look stunning with Alexander.”

“That is one way to put it, ma’am,” James carefully did not agree, throwing a teasing look Thomas’ way.

Taking advantage of the silence, Thomas glanced about him curiously. “Where _is_ everyone else?”

Martha's face sobered up. Her eyes for a shifty look on her face. “They are currently trying to talk Alexander out of the misguided misapprehension that you are going to, as he put it, ‘bail’ on him.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied Thomas’ face. “It _is_ misguided, I sincerely hope,” she added with just the right amount of threat in her voice, the words a statement rather than a question.

“He is _what_.” Thomas didn't know what was more insulting—the fact that Alexander has thought that Thomas would leave him dry at the altar, or the fact that he hadn't mentioned it to Thomas before, and that he had to find out from his _stepmother._ Future stepmother-in-law. Whatever.

Martha stifled a smile. “I would send _you,_ but tradition dictates that the to-be-marrieds are not to see each other before the wedding.”

“In the interest of accuracy, only the groom is not allowed to see the bride,” Thomas pointed out. “Alexander is hardly a bride.”

Martha pursed her lips. “I suppose I can see your point,” she said slowly. “You _would_ be the optimal person to reassure him.”

This was how Thomas found himself in front of the door to the library. So _that_ was where that Alexander had been hiding.

“Alexander,” he tried. “Come out, love.”

There was no reply.

Thomas huffed. “Alexander, don't be a child.”

“I'm not,” came the sharp response.

“Uh, huh,” Thomas said dubiously. “Are you planning on coming out anytime soon, or do I have to attend our wedding alone?”

“I'll have you know I came out a long time ago, Mr. ‘I'm So Super Heterosexual’,” Alexander fired back in a strained voice.

“Alex…” Thomas said, taking a step back, “ _please_ open the door.”

A pause. “There's still some time before the wedding.”

“Maybe I want to talk to you regardless of when we're getting married,” Thomas retorted hotly. He took a calming breath. “Come out, please. I want to talk to you.”

He waited. Finally, the door opened. Thomas stepped through, somewhat uneasy about what he would find.

He was greeted to a somewhat surprising sight. Alexander was sprawled out on one of the couches, already in his suit. A dark-purple bow tie was hanging over the back of one of the adjacent chairs. The table had been pushed up against the wall—for what purpose, Thomas could not discern.

The sight of Alexander took his breath away. His fiancé looked _gorgeous,_ dressed in a dark-emerald suit. The same shade, Thomas realized in the back of his mind, as Thomas’ bow tie. He couldn’t help but glance at Alexander’s abandoned tie. It was a familiar hue of purple.

Huh. It seemed that Lafayette had coordinated their suits. Thomas _had_ wondered about that. He loved the way it turned out.

“Alexander,” Thomas said gently, “talk to me.”

Alexander huffed. A lock of his loose hair flew up, then landed in his face. “I thought you said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

“Conversation usually requires a two-way exchange. Otherwise, it’s a monologue, and I have enough of those as it is.”

“I didn’t let you in just to hear you insult me,” Alexander grouched.

“You didn’t let him in. I did,” said a voice from behind Thomas, making him jump. He swirled on the spot, coming eye-to-eye with the king, who gave him a distinctly unimpressed look. Thomas regulated his breathing forcefully, even as he chastised himself. How could he not have questioned how the door had opened without Alexander’s help? It would have been impossible for Alexander to open the door and get back to the couch before Thomas could enter.

Washington noticed Thomas’ startled look. “Ignore me,” he said, though even the gentlest of statements sounded like an order when coming from Washington. “Help Alexander.”

Thomas figured that it was as close to a blessing as he was going to get from Washington. He turned back to the redhead, who had now buried his face into a pillow he had pulled from seemingly nowhere. He took a seat on the couch at Alexander’s feet. “What’s wrong? I can’t help you if I don’t know what the problem is.”

“There’s no problem,” Alexander denied sharply.

“Don’t deny it. I do have eyes, Hamilton.” It was almost painfully obvious what the problem was. Even if Martha hadn’t told Thomas what was going on, Thomas would have figured out at that point.

A sigh. “It’s not a problem. You can’t help me with it. It’s not any of your business.”

“It is if it is about me, and, considering that you’re panicking on our wedding day, I doubt that it’s about anything else.”

“I—I—” Alexander stammered out, the pillow muffling the noise. He, for once, was not the picture of loquacious eloquence as he choked on his words. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Thomas felt his heart drop to his socks. “Of course, darling,” he said, forcing down the panic building in his throat. “Are… are you?”

“Of course!” came the immediate response. “I proposed to you! I wouldn't _do_ that if I wasn't sure!”

“Is this what this is about?” Thomas reached over Alexander to brush his hair out of his face. “You’re afraid that I’m going to leave you at the altar?”

Alexander nodded wordlessly, his words failing him.

Thomas sighed. “Darlin’, I can promise you that I would never do anything like that.” There was no visible reaction. “Look,” he tried again. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Alexander said hesitantly. Thomas admired the effort it took him to say that. They both had trust issues, which hadn’t been made better first by Alexander’s purposeful lying by omission, followed by Thomas’ reckless shouting of whatever came to mind and ignoring Alexander’s pleas to be involved in Thomas’ life.

“Then please trust me that I won’t leave you. I will never leave you.”

He felt a shift, before something pressed itself into his abdomen. He looked down, and saw Alexander’s red hair obscuring his face. “You cannot make that promise,” Alexander mumbled against Thomas’ belly.

Thomas twirled a handful of Alexander’s hairs around his finger. “I will never leave you willingly,” he amended. “Now give me an elastic. Your hair is _everywhere,_ and, as much as I like it, I like being able to see your face more.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Leaving George in charge of tending to Alexander, Thomas left in search of Lafayette. He didn't quite know why—the Frenchman had made no secret of the fact that he didn't think Thomas deserved to be the person Alexander woke up next to for the rest of his life, for all that he didn't mind him as a person—but he would do anything to take his mind off the fact that he was getting married in _less than six hours_.

He found James and Lafayette in the ballroom, where the wedding was going to be taking place since British weather in October was what it was. It was cloudy overhead, but frankly, it wasn't much worse than what passed for a summer here. The climate was persistently wet, no matter the time of the year, and Thomas forgot what point he was trying to make to himself.

He tuned into the scene playing out in the ballroom just in time to hear Lafayette shout expletives in French as the workers rushed to put the last of the preparations in place.

James rolled his eyes, before spotting Thomas. He murmured quietly in Lafayette’s ear, before disappearing into the crowd. Lafayette huffed, turning abruptly to Thomas. _“You’re not allowed to be here yet,”_ he told the Virginian in French, irritation colouring his words.

Thomas sniffed. _“I thought that it was_ my _wedding,”_ he shot back in the same language, his words a little stiff. He wasn’t as fluent as he would have liked—he hadn’t spoken French more than in passing in several years—but he could make himself understood just fine.

Lafayette blinked, seeming to finally notice what language he had been shouting in. “I didn’t know you spoke French,” he remarked.

Thomas shrugged awkwardly. “It hadn’t come up.”

James, the saviour that he was, chose that moment to appear. “There, as promised” he told Lafayette in satisfaction.

Thomas furrowed his brows. “What is as promised?” he questioned.

“Nothing that you need to concern yourself with,” Lafayette said breezily. “Thank you, senator.”

“It was really no problem,” James replied lightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a duty that takes precedence.” He took Thomas by his elbow and led him away from the Frenchman, who stared after them in puzzlement before turning back to the workers with another _“Bouge de là!”_

Thomas stared at James. “What was all _that_ about?” he wondered.

James grimaced. “I gave him my word that I would assist him with something,” he explained enigmatically. “It’s not exactly secret, and no, it’s not going to be a big surprise at the end of the wedding, so stop looking so expectant. It was just a minor detail. There hadn’t been a reason for me not to help, so I did. Now come on—there’s still a million things that need doing before you can get married to your dream prince.”

From there, the day devolved into a series of snapshots, becoming indistinct. People shifted to phantasms, nameless figures asking him this or telling him that. Stand here, Mr Jefferson. A little to the left, Mr Jefferson. Smile like that, Mr Jefferson. Don’t forget your vows, Mr Jefferson. Don’t you just look _ravishing_?

That last one had been Patsy, who had appeared at his side as suddenly as a ghost, only to disappear equally quickly after giving him the compliment. Confusion didn’t even begin to cover it.

Throughout the entire morning, James remained at his side, a constant for which Thomas was eternally grateful. James didn’t chastise him or boss him around, even though he of all people, as Thomas’ best man, had the right to it. It was a nice change.

After a while, Thomas was told that he wouldn’t see Alexander until the wedding—a fact which made him decidedly glad that he had agreed to that brief meeting in the library. He wondered how Alexander was doing. Was he still under the delusion that Thomas would leave him? Thomas sincerely hoped not. His day had been arduous enough already without having to worry about their wedding falling apart. Knowing Alexander, he was probably going through worst-case scenarios in his mind, one even more horrible than the other, calculating what could go wrong, what the damage would be, and how to go about avoiding it altogether. Thomas sometimes envied Alexander’s singularly sharp mind, even compared to Thomas’, but times like these made him grateful that his mind was a lot more scientifically inclined.

All too soon, the clocks rang.

They had, Thomas recalled, after several heated debates, decided against either of them walking in to the Wedding March. Thomas remembered that particular discussion of the procedures all too well. Alexander’s voice had drowned out everyone else’s as he declared that nobody was going to be given away, because neither man was going to be the bride and honestly, it was an archaic tradition anyway, rooted in a Feudalist society where patriarchal alliances were formed through marriage and women were being treated like trading goods and Alexander is having none of that, so fuck tradition.

Lafayette had paused in his transcribing. “I can’t just write ‘fuck tradition’,” he had told the prince.

“What’s wrong with that?” Alexander’s voice had been affronted. "Everyone knows my stance on the oppressive role of patriarchy in creating a chasm between the genders and aggravating sexism and misogyny.”

“You have lectured your American often enough on the nuances of being politically correct when speaking about our political system that you _should_ be able to answer that question.”

“I had been talking about his attitude towards the monarchy.”

“And in what world is the British monarchy and tradition not connected?” Lafayette had shot back.

The discussion had then devolved into shouting and name-calling, but it had also amounted to a drastic change in the traditional procedures.

Now, as he was stepping up onto the dais, James trailing two feet behind him, just within Thomas’ reach, Thomas questioned whether it hadn’t been better to just keep it as it had been. At least then, all attention would have been on Alexander as he entered the room, led, no doubt, by Washington, instead of being stared at by the crowd at large.

He was torn between an urge to scream and another telling him to curl up into a ball and never show his face in public, simultaneously overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the life-altering choice he was making and the path he was committing to.

Alexander entered. Thomas knew what belied Alexander's poise and stillness. Memories of Alexander’s voice coming from behind a door, asking him whether he still wanted to get married or whether he was going to bail on him, came to mind. Underneath his facade, Alexander was as much of a ball of nerves and anxiety as Thomas was; he was simply better at hiding it. Somehow, that reminder made Thomas feel just a little better about himself.

By Alexander’s side walked Washington. Behind them walked Burr, a bouquet of purple flowers in his hand. Feeling himself beginning to panic, Thomas forced himself to focus on the flowers—orchids, violets, lilies, and white roses. It was a beautiful arrangement, but it looked ridiculous in Burr’s hands, as anyone who has known Aaron Burr for longer than the span of time it took for Burr to show his stubborn non-committal to all things… pretty much _anything,_ could attest to. Thomas wondered whether it had been Alexander who had roped Burr into this. On second thoughts, it must have been Alexander, as nobody else had as much sway over Burr’s choices as the crown prince, considering the amount of time the two spent around each other. Despite his best efforts, Thomas’ eyes flickered back to Alexander. He gulped loudly, and swore that James snickered at the sound.

Thomas was painfully aware of the fact that his every move, every gesture, was being filmed and broadcasted live on national television. He was fairly certain that there was a camera right behind him, but did not dare to turn around and look.

Alexander was biting his lip as he came to a stop next to Thomas. Washington walked around them and into the spot where the registrar was supposed to be standing.

When he looked back on the ceremony later that evening, as much as he would have liked to say that he stayed sharp through the whole ceremony, the truth was that he hadn’t. To be entirely honest, he didn’t even remember most of it. He attributed it to stress, but he would have liked to remember his own bloody _wedding._

He did remember the vows though. When Washington had declared that they were to exchange vows, he stilled. It was simultaneously the part he had been most excited about and most terrified of. He hadn’t shown anyone the vows he had written—in part because they were something innately personal, something he did not want ridiculed by others, and in part because it almost felt as though, the moment he said them aloud, they would lose their meaning. It was dumb, Thomas knew, but it didn’t change the fact of the matter.

Alexander coughed. “Thomas Jefferson,” he began, “I promise to be your love, your companion, and your friend, your partner in life, your ally in conflict, your greatest fan and your toughest adversary. Your comrade in adventure, your student and your teacher, your consolation in disappointment, your accomplice in mischief. This is my sacred vow to you, my sun and stars, my equal in all things.”

Washington’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Alexander. He then turned to Thomas, asking him for his vows. His face was carefully neutral, but anyone who knew him classified the look as the ‘just bit into a sour lemon’ kind. Well, Washington could fuck off to Hawaii for all Thomas cared at the moment.

Thomas had expected to stumble and stutter on the words, but, to his surprise, they flowed from his lips as though imprinted on his brain. “You are my love and my teacher. You are my idol and my accomplice. You are my true counterpart, the moon of my life, and there is still a part of me today that cannot believe that I'm the one who gets to marry you,” he said honestly. “I promise to love you, cherish you, and honour you. I will respect you, encourage you, and assist you, in sickness and in health, through success and sorrow, until the end of my days. Love is a collaborative work of art, and I intend to create it with you.”

Finally, _finally,_ after what felt like an eternity, though it couldn’t have been longer than a few seconds, Washington gave Thomas an satisfied smile. He took both Thomas’ and Alexander’s hands, clasping each in one of his, then addressed Thomas. “Wilt thou, Thomas Peter Jefferson, take George James Alexander Hamilton Washington for thy lawfully wedded husband, to live together according to God’s law in the Holy Estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” Washington said.

“I do,” Thomas said, his voice more stable than his legs, which seemed to have turned to jelly. He accepted a ring from one of the groomsmen, and slipped it onto Alexander’s finger, shivering at how cold Alexander’s fingers felt, even as the back of his mind was trying to remember when they had made the active choice to buy these particular rings. He thought that he remembered a scene—Alexander had been laughing at something Thomas had said, holding up an ugly rose gold ring and fluttering his eyelashes—but the more he tried to grab the memory, the more it eluded him.

Meanwhile, Washington went on. “Wilt thou, George James Alexander Hamilton Washington, take Thomas Peter Jefferson for thy lawfully wedded husband, to live together according to God’s law in the Holy Estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Alexander nodded vigorously. “I do.” Repeating Thomas’ action, he took a ring from its cushion and put it onto Thomas’ ring finger.

Washington clasped their hands together. Thomas’ sweaty fingers curled around Alexander’s cold ones.

“I now pronounce you husband and husband,” Washington said solemnly. “You may now seal this with a kiss.”

There was a silence for a second after Washington's announcement, before Alexander suddenly leaned in, invading Thomas’ personal space, and pressed their lips together. Thomas reciprocated the kiss, but didn't deepen it. He had to restrain himself. After all, they had to keep it short and moderately decent, none of which would happen if Alexander got his way.

And then it was over. It was over, and he was _married to Alexander._ He guessed that it would take a while for that to sink it.

They were shuffled over for photos. Alone, then with Washington, then with the king and his wife, then with the groomsmen, and finally everyone.

There were tears in Thomas’ eyes. He would be embarrassed by that fact (his uncle’s dogma of ‘real men don’t cry’ echoed in his head), except for the fact that, judging by everyone’s faces, so was everyone else: Alexander’s eyes were red from the tears which he kept insisting weren’t really there—his eyes had just been in a fight, Lafayette, let it go already; Lafayette was crying outright with not a care for who saw him; Martha alternated between blowing her nose and hugging Alexander and Thomas with all her might; James tried, and failed spectacularly, to blink away the tears that formed in his eyes, before giving it up as a futile fight and drying his eyes on the handkerchief he carried with him at all times; even Washington’s eyes were reddened, the man himself having given up any semblance of dignity and was squeezing Alexander’s shoulder possessively, as though still unwilling to let his only son run off with a crude American.

Objectively, they probably looked like a hot mess, the six of them hugging each other and babbling unintelligible assurances. Whoever thought that royalty was dignified clearly hadn’t seen them at an emotional ceremony.

Speaking of emotions. Thomas’ eyes found Burr, the man standing a short distance away, his hands still clutching the bouquet, shifting uncomfortably. He was probably not used to being the center of attention, preferring to keep to the shadows.

Thomas ran a thumb along Alexander’s ring. His palms still felt sweaty, but the sweat was cold now. Thomas wasn’t sure which he disliked more.

When Alexander and George (God, it had been weird enough calling the king by his last name—now, Thomas would be expected to call him George or, worse still, _father_ ; Thomas shuddered) initiated a furious conversation of whispers, no doubt very poignant, Thomas took the opportunity to look around. He hadn’t really taken anything in when he first walked, and the sight of Alexander had only exacerbated Thomas’ tunnel vision. There were flowers _everywhere._ Thomas has a sneaking suspicion that, when they entered, everyone received one to hold, because it was impossible to fit so many flowers into one room unless they occupied the same space as the guests.

The guards were flower-free. That was something, at any rate.

Martha’s final breakdown came when both Alexander and Thomas handed her the flowers that the groom, as tradition dictates, gives to his mother. Tears streaming down her fact, she hugged them, dragging her husband into the hug as well. Someone definitely took a photo for posterity, featuring the majestic royal family of England bawling their eyes out. He wondered how much it would piss his mother off when she realized that, in Thomas’ eyes, she wasn’t his mother in any ways that mattered, and found that he didn’t care. He still loved her, and, in a way, always would—she wasn’t a terrible person per se, she just had misguided beliefs—but there was something to be said for having a mother who loved you and treasured you _because_ of who you were, instead of _despite_.

The people were still milling around the room. Thomas was fairly certain that there was going to be a reception, even if the details were a little fuzzy in his brain right now. Couldn’t they just give Thomas’ family a moment of privacy?

At one point, Alexander was, under the pretext of socializing, whisked off into the crowd, swallowed by it as easily as night becomes day, or as easily as one’s life might be forfeited by the sharp end of a knife and yeah, maybe Thomas was being a little too morbid about crowds but he _really hated_ socializing with strangers. Alexander offered Thomas a chance to tag along, to get a feel of the kind of people he would be spending the majority of his time around, but Thomas declined. He knew his limits; he was still reeling from the ceremony, and a breather sounded just about perfect. George frowned at that, but didn’t argue with Thomas—though that might have been because he, too, was sucked into the traitorous world of the British socialite.

Thomas’ tactic of avoiding the crowd until they disappeared did not work out. At some point, a celebrity or other noticed him standing off to the side, fumbling with his ring as he made small talk to Jack, who looked equally out-of-place, and decided that they wanted to get to know the man who had ‘captured Prince Alexander’s heart’, as the Finnish emissary put it. This was how Thomas was swept, quite against his will, into the discussions.

It did not take long for Thomas to grow bored, because how much time could be spent debating how many kinds of spoons need to be at a plate at a formal _sitting._ He longed for Alexander, who, at the very least, was intelligent company. Hell, he would settle for George, or even Burr, though Lafayette might be a bit of a stretch.

Thomas lost track of whom he had talked with. Everyone seemed to want to congratulate him and Alexander, telling them how perfect they were and how good they looked together. Their names blurred together into one long line of _Wilkinskimacartheyandersson._ Thomas’ head began to hurt; he rubbed his temples, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. Judging by the looks Martha threw his way, or the way Patsy took him aside and asked him whether he was alright, he hadn’t quite succeeded. Thomas reassured Patsy that everything was fine, really. A headache had never killed anyone, after all. To this, Patsy pointed out that, according to a new study, extreme headaches _could_ theoretically be lethal. After promising that he would tell Alexander if he began to feel worse, Thomas reluctantly accepted a ibuprofen from her, before returning to the vultures, who wasted no time in tearing into him anew, while Patsy whispered something to Martha, no doubt about her exchange with Thomas. He felt Martha and Patsy’s eyes linger on him for a long time.

When they got a moment alone—sometime after talking to the Portuguese ambassador but before the next vulture could sweep in and lay their claws around Alexander—Alexander gave Thomas the widest, _dumbest_ grin Thomas had ever seen. “We’re married,” he said, giddy with excitement. “We’re actually honest-to-God _married_.”

“Yeah,” Thomas drawled mockingly, even though he had been feeling that same curious disconnection from reality all afternoon. “How good of you to notice.”

Alexander pretended to smack his shoulder. “Let me enjoy the moment.” He stuck out his tongue.

One of Thomas’ hands sneaked around Alexander’s waist, settling comfortably just over his hips. God, Alexander was so _tiny._ Alexander had a way of making people forget that fact, what with his intelligence and his passion and his talkativity and even his sheer ego, but he was _small_. The top of his head barely reached Thomas’ chin. He was adorable _._

“Let’s deal with our adoring fans, shall we?” Alexander suggested lightly, tugging him along to the room where the reception was to be held. A crowd of people followed them. So they _had_ been waiting for them. Oops. Oh, well.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas wasn’t even surprised by the fact that there was a seating arrangement at the banquet slash reception (it was unclear what Lafayette had originally intended, which was how it ended up being an amalgamation of both). Alexander sat to his right, Lafayette on Alexander’s other side, followed by George, Martha, and her children. On Thomas’ left sat James, then the American ambassador, Jacqueline Prevost, then his wife, then Burr. It didn’t quite make sense why Burr would sit on what was technically Thomas’ side when he was clearly Alexander’s guest; on the other hand, it would have been very awkward if Alexander’s side had been filled to the brim with people, while Thomas’ featured only James. A little remodeling had been needed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Burr try to make small talk with Mrs Prevost, who seemed amused, more than anything, by Burr’s attempts, and not a little endeared. Thomas stifled a snort. Burr was even worse at socializing than Thomas, and that said quite a bit.

“There’s going to be an appetizer first,” Alexander murmured quietly into Thomas’ ear. “After that, there’s going to be dancing; just follow my lead and remember our dance lessons.” Thomas thought about protesting for the sake of a protest—because who the hell put Alexander in charge of dancing?—but decided against it. He was by no means in the right state of mind to dance, let alone _lead._ “Then there’s a little more mingling, and then there’s food. After that, there’s—”

“What about the reception?” Thomas blurted out.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “This _is_ the reception, love.”

“But—” Thomas fumbled for words. “Aren’t there usually—”

“Gifts?” Alexander filled in with a grin. “Yeah, but we—the House of Washington, that is—have a tradition where we don't display our wedding gifts out in the open during the reception. Instead, they’re opened _after_ the dinner.”

“How long does this typically take?” Thomas wondered with a dawning feeling of horror.

Alexander threw back his head and laughed, drawing not a few looks to them. Mindless of the audience they were gathering, he turned back to Thomas. “Oh, ten hours, give or take, with all the formalities.”

“And we are—”

“Two hours in.” Alexander positively _smirked._ He pointed at one of the dishes. “Here, try this.”

Thomas stared at the jelly-like dish in distaste. “What _is_ that?” he glared at the food in question.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing poisonous. Pinky swear,” he held up his other hand, wiggling his pinky for emphasis, which forced a laugh out of Thomas.

“You’re a dork,” the Virginian told his husband.

Alexander grinned. “You love me anyway, Mr Hamilton.”

“Mr Jefferson-Hamilton-Washington,” Thomas corrected, stumbling slightly over the order. Why had he agreed to take on both of Alexander’s last names? Oh _right,_ because Alexander threw a hissy fit every time Thomas so much as suggested anything otherwise.

“Mr Hamilton for short.”

Thomas snorted. “You just really like to put your name on things, don’t you?”

“I can’t even deny that,” Alexander said, unabashedly smug. He put a tablespoon of the gooey dish onto Thomas’ plate and pushed it towards Thomas. “Try it.”

Thomas stared at the dish dubiously, but he had never been particularly good at resisting Alexander when he looked like a puppy expecting to be kicked. He stabbed the dish with more force than necessary, watching in satisfaction as Alexander winced on behalf of the dish. He lifted the fork to the level of his eyes. “It has fish,” he declared. “And eggs. And spinach.”

“Yes,” Alexander confirmed. “That’s kind of its characteristic.”

Thomas lowered his hand. “You _do_ know that raw spinach is poisonous, right?” he deadpanned.

Alexander huffed. “That’s a lie made up by a bunch of pre-schoolers who don’t want to eat their vegetables, and you know it.”

“So you made it up,” Thomas shot back.

“That was _low._ ”

“Not as low as you are.”

“ _And_ a hit under the belt, to boot.”

Thomas shrugged, still staring at the speared food with calculation. “If a hit under the belt gets me what I want, I’m not about to refrain from it just because some dickwad decided that it’s unsportsmanlike.”

Alexander stared at Thomas. “I don’t know if you were channeling me or Aaron.”

“I sincerely hope that I was channeling you,” Thomas drawled, “because I’d rather straight-up drink arsenic than turn into Burr.”

Alexander chuckled. Abruptly, before Thomas had the time to flinch away, he grabbed a hold of Thomas’ hand and pressed the suspicious-looking dish into his mouth.

Thomas seethed. He tried to say something, but the words were muffled by the food.

Alexander smirked. “Close your mouth when chewing, dear,” he told Thomas smugly.

Thomas glowered at him. He swallowed the food, grimacing at the taste. “It will be your fault if I die of food poisoning on our wedding day.”

Alexander poked his nose, chortling when Thomas’ glare intensified. “It’s actually considered quite the delicacy here on the Isles,” he remarked casually.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You heathens clearly have no taste buds.”

“Says the man who, if left to his own devices, could eat mac and cheese for the rest of his life,” Alexander shot back.

“Don’t diss mac and cheese,” Thomas exclaimed. He winced when he saw that their neighbours looked over to them in curiosity. “Sorry,” he apologized, before turning back to Alexander, whose face was split into two by a huge grin. “Don’t act so smug.”

“Me? Smug?” Alexander feigned surprise. “Why, I’d _never._ ” He took the opportunity to quickly peck the place on Thomas’ nose where he had poked him before.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Thomas looked around the room, again noticing the crowd of clever onlookers the two had attracted. “We have an audience,” he told Alexander quietly.

“I know,” Alexander replied simply. He did not elaborate.

Thomas sighed. “I hate this,” he declared quietly.

He had not meant for Alexander to hear him, but Alexander turned around, looking at him in puzzlement. “Hate what?” he asked. Thomas detected a note of hurt in his voice. “You’re going to have to be more specific, love.”

Thomas looked down at the napkin in front of him. “The fact that our wedding is being used as a political ploy to make a statement,” he said bluntly, not bothering to mince his words.

“And what statement, exactly, would I be making, apart from announcing to the world at large that I love you?” Alexander challenged.

Thomas glanced up and into Alexander’s eyes. “That gay relationships are okay; that the royal family approves of them.” He wondered, not for the first time, if his love for Alexander really outweighed every negative aspect that was sure to eventually come of being married to him. Was it worth it? Was _Alexander_ worth it?

 _Yes,_ he decided a second later. Alexander was always worth it. There was very little he would not do for Alexander.

Alexander frowned. “Well, that’s kind of a thing with the royal family,” he said slowly. “Whatever we do, whether intentional or not, is turned into a statement about something. I can’t even get married to the person I love without it turning into a whole circus with left vs right. This affects me as much as it affects _you,_ Thomas.”

Thomas looked away. He had not considered it from that light. When Alexander put it like _that,_ Thomas did sound like the asshole he most definitely wasn’t.

He felt Alexander squeeze his hand. “Love, I wish we could have had a small and quiet wedding.”

“No, you don’t,” Thomas immediately retorted. “You’re a diva who thrives off attention.”

“And you are a drama queen. You’re right; I wouldn’t have wanted a smaller wedding, but I would have wanted the cameras gone. They make you uncomfortable.”

‘So does everything else,’ Thomas very carefully did not say.

Alexander bit his cheek. “I need to talk to a few more people,” he murmured. He looked up at Thomas. “Will you be fine here?”

Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “As long as I’m not attacked by those hyenas you call friends, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not _friends_ with these people,” Alexander protested at once. “We simply move in the same circles. Trust me, I’m friends with maybe four people in this room, excluding my family, Lafayette, and the bodyguards, and three of them are writers.”

Thomas made a shooing movement. “Well, go on and talk to them.”

Alexander made as if to stand up, then paused mid-movement. He glanced down at Thomas. “Are you so quick to rid yourself of my presence?” he taunted.

“I want some peace and quiet, and neither is a synonym with _Alexander Hamilton._ ”

Alexander pretended to clutch his heart. “Such is the bitter betrayal of my heart’s beloved!” he gasped.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “ _Go._ Shoo.”

Alexander stuck out his tongue at Thomas, then disappeared into the throng of bodies—people who had either already finished the Gooey Dish of Doom, or, being experienced in the art of what to avoid at aristocratic parties, had enough self-preservation not to try it in the first place. Thomas wondered whether there was a manual to these sorts of things. He sorely needed one.

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“Alexander,” his father murmured quietly, drawing him aside into the relative privacy people tended to grant the king, intimidating as he looked. Alexander privately thanked whoever was up there listening, because if he had to listen to one more word of Secretary Seabury’s blatant _blather—_ there was no polite word for it—he would start to beg for the sweet release of death. “I believe that you should talk to Mr Burr before he does irreparable damage. No matter how fond you are of him, that will not save him should he instigate an international scandal.”

Alexander’s eyes found the corner of the room where his father was looking. There, Aaron Burr, still holding the bouquet of flowers, was leaning against the wall, smiling suggestively at the woman in front of him.

Alexander was torn between snickering and scowling, because if this was Burr’s best shot at flirting, then Alexander needed to reevaluate his opinion of him. It was, quite frankly, _pathetic._ However—

 _However._ Burr was leaning into Prevost’s personal space far more than was appropriate. Judging by Prevost’s face, she was very much aware of it, and didn’t mind it. Which created questions in and of itself—and which was a problem.

“I see, sir,” Alexander said quietly. “I will get right on it, Your Majesty.”

“See that you do,” his father ordered. He stood in front of Alexander for another moment, looking decidedly uncomfortable, before excusing himself. He didn’t make it two steps before Secretary Seabury, seeing his opening, drew up beside him, already talking about some triviality or other.

Alexander strode to the other end of the room, skillfully avoiding crossing paths with anyone who so much as glanced at him.

He came to a stop behind Burr. Prevost noticed him, but, beyond a curious flicker of her eyes, she did not acknowledge his presence.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Burr, sir,” Alexander threw an arm around Burr’s shoulders. The action was made slightly difficult by the fact that Burr had a good ten centimeters on him, but Alexander was nothing if not persistent. “May I speak with you?”

The look Burr directed at him was carefully devoid of all emotions. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“ _Alone,_ ” Alexander empathized.

Burr turned to Prevost. “You must excuse me, milady,” he said politely. “We must continue this discussion at a later date.”

Prevost smirked. “I very much look forward to being educated by you on the merits of the Imperial system.” In contrast to Burr, Prevost’s tone could not be mistaken for anything but flirtatious. Alexander swore internally.

Alexander led Burr away to the same corner where he had previously spoken with his father. He waited until they had relative privacy, surrounded by loud conversations on all sides, before he turned to Burr. “You can’t _flirt at my wedding,_ ” he hissed furiously.

Burr gave him an unimpressed look. “And why not?”

“Let me amend that. The crown prince’s head of security can’t flirt with the wife of the American ambassador at the wedding between said prince and an American citizen. Do you have _any idea_ about the kind of problems it would create if Ambassador Prevost found out?”

“Ambassador Prevost is more preoccupied with Senator Madison’s tale of woe than with her own wife,” Burr deadpanned. “I hardly think the ambassador is going to be a problem.”

“People could see you! It could get back to her from any of the, oh, I don’t know, _five hundred attendees_! The sheer amount of blackmail this could give any one of our enemies is beyond even my comprehension!"

“You had no problem flirting with Jefferson.”

“Jefferson-Hamilton-Washington," Alexander corrected. "And that’s because he doesn’t happen to have a spouse who is the representative of, objectively, the most trigger-happy country in the world with the nuclear arsenal large enough to blow the entire place to smithereens.”

Burr glared. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Alexander would have teased Burr about finally finding his emotions wherever he had left them as a child. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m dead serious. Mr Burr, you will cease any association with Mrs Prevost beyond professional courtesy,” Alexander said somberly, knowing full well that Burr would do no such thing.

Burr’s face settled back into a curiously emotionless state. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Alexander groaned. “You aren’t going to do it, are you?”

“Of course I will,” Burr said smoothly. “What makes you think that I wouldn’t?” Burr answered Alexander’s rhetorical question with one of his own.

“Because _I know that look._ I see it every time I look into the mirror.”

“I’m not you. I have self-restraint.”

“I know that. I just have a sneaking suspicion that you’re not going to use it.”

“Name one instance where I have not been restrained,” Burr demanded. “ _One time._ ”

Alexander couldn’t. But it didn’t mean that it couldn’t change. Past performance is not an indicator of future results, after all.

“Please just drop it. I’m a responsible adult; I know when to put others’ needs above my own. Unlike _certain other people,_ ” Burr added, glancing at Alexander.

Alexander glared. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he demanded. “Answer me, instead of playing this passive-aggressive game of yours.”

Burr waved a hand. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it—”

“It doesn’t, Your Highness,” Burr said coldly. He looked up, meeting eyes with Alexander’s husband for a split second. “Don’t you have someone more important to attend to?” he added pointedly.

Alexander followed his line of sight. His posture softened when he saw Thomas. “This discussion isn’t over,” he hissed. Contrary to popular belief, Alexander knew how to pick his battles. The fact that he usually picked all of them was irrelevant. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not you,” was all that Burr replied with.

Alexander huffed. He tried to return to where Thomas was sitting, but was intercepted by… some emissary or other. After two hours of socializing, Alexander was exhausted; he couldn’t be bothered to remember all of their names. If they wanted to talk to him, too bad. He was going to see his husband.

The diplomat faithfully followed Alexander’s every step, talking and talking and _talking,_ not taking the obvious hint. Alexander rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to either punch the man or duct tape his mouth shut. Was this how people felt whenever he opened his mouth? Poor world.

He came to a stop in front of the table, drawing Thomas’ attention. “Hello, love,” he grinned.

Thomas stood up. “All done?” he asked as casually as he could, although Alexander could see how much effort it took him not to turn tail and run from the garrulous politician or diplomat or whatever this guy’s job was apart from general human annoyance.

“Yeah. There’s something I’ve been itching to ask you.” Alexander paused, coming around the table. His eyes wandered to the diplomat, then back to Thomas. He looked singularly awkward, standing between the empty seat that should have been occupied by Alexander, and his best man, who looked to be very much immersed in a discussion with Ambassador Prevost. Alexander was reminded about Burr. He glanced around the room, but could not spot his usually ever-present shadow. Neither could he see Mrs Prevost. He sighed. It was a bit problematic.

Stopping in front of Thomas, he stretched out his hand, palm up. “Mr Hamilton, would you do me the honour of giving me a dance?” he smiled charmingly.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “I'm going to start calling you Mr Jefferson if you don't shut up.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Mr Hamilton.”

“You’re an asshole,” Thomas drawled.

“An asshole you’re going to dance with,” Alexander filled in hopefully.

Thomas accepted his hand. Alexander whooped internally.

The emissary coughed pointedly, reminding Alexander of his presence. Alexander scowled as he turned to him. “Listen,” he told the emissary, “I don’t care whether you’re the bloody king of Spain—I’m going to dance with my husband _right now._ ”

Thomas flushed deeply, and Alexander would be lying if he said that the sight hadn’t created a fuzzy warm feeling in his stomach.

Leaving the diplomat to fend for himself, Alexander led Thomas to the floor. Lafayette must have noticed the sudden movement, because the quiet background music paused before switching to a slow waltz. Alexander gripped Thomas; he corrected Thomas’ posture here and there before leading into the first notes of the music.

He focused on the melody, on the steps, and on the man he loved in his arms, trying to put Burr out of his mind.

“Alexander, are you alright? Are you looking around for someone? You are not panicking, are you?” Thomas asked in concern.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as successful as he would have wished.

“No,” he assured Thomas, the lie tasting a little sour on his lips. “I’m fine.”

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

Thomas couldn’t help but be drawn in by the music. It was beautiful, the notes hitting _just right,_ evoking emotions in him just by _existing,_ melodies, seemingly identical, falling apart before coming together again, weaving around each other in a dance all their own, not unlike the one he was dancing in his husband’s arms.

He could see that something was on Alexander’s mind, but he could not very well force Alexander to reveal what it was. Very few people could make Alexander Hamilton do something he did not already want, and Thomas did not count himself among the chosen few, no matter what Martha claimed.

The dance was slow, the music calming. Lafayette _had_ withstood Alexander’s insistent suggestions to include _The Rains of Castamere._ It did make Thomas feel a little better to know that there would be no fatalities at their wedding, death by British appetizer notwithstanding—that was still up for debate.

The final notes played, and Alexander and Thomas came to a stop at the same time as the music did. They were met with thunderous applause. Thomas jumped; he had all but forgotten about their audience, enthralled as he was by the music itself.

Alexander looked around. His eyes caught on something. “Come on.” his husband grinned as he tugged on Thomas’ hand. “There’s someone you’re going to want to meet.”

Thomas groaned, but let himself being dragged through the crowd.

Alexander stopped in front of a short blonde woman, and _holy shit._ Thomas could recognize her anywhere. Joanne Kathleen Rowling. Alexander had invited _Joanne bloody Rowling_ to their wedding.

“Joanne, do you have a moment?” Alexander asked politely.

Rowling turned around. Her fixed smile became genuine when she saw whom she was speaking with. “For you, always.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “And you accuse _me_ of being cliché. At least I don’t sound like I quote my books every moment of every day. Now, there’s someone I want you to meet. Joanne, this is Thomas Jefferson-Hamilton Washington, my husband as of an hour and a half ago. Thomas, this is Joanne Rowling. I believe you already know her.”

Thomas swallowed. He accepted Rowling’s outstretched hand, shaking it as though through a mist. “I’m honoured.”

“The honour is all mine,” Rowling assured him with another bright smile.

Alexander pretended to glare at her, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he was grinning simultaneously. “He’s my husband now; don’t you try to steal him,” he said playfully.

“Love, don’t make me choose between you and Hogwarts,” Thomas teased. “You won’t like the results.”

Alexander pouted. “I shouldn’t have done this,” he muttered. He pointed an accusing finger at Rowling. “See what you’ve done?” he mocked.

Rowling hid a snort. “It’s a lovely wedding that you have here,” she complimented.

“Tell that to Lafayette. He was the one who arranged the whole thing,” Alexander said flippantly. Alexander’s sudden mood switches tended to give Thomas whiplash, because _woah._

Rowling cleared her throat. “Your Highnesses,” she said politely, bowing her head. Thomas realized with a start that she was addressing the both of them. Thomas was _royalty_ now. “I will not take up any more of your time.”

Alexander tugged on Thomas’ hand again. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” Alexander called out to her. To Thomas, he said, “Let’s go and eat. I think dinner is just about ready to be served.”

When he put it like _that,_ Thomas could hardly say no to food, now could he?

(Except the gooey thing. That, he could do without.)

༚˚✧₊⁎❝᷀ົཽ≀ˍ̮ ❝᷀ົཽ⁎⁺˳✧

“Okay, but have you tried this?” Alexander asked Thomas, pointing at something that looked strangely like chicken.

“It’s just chicken, isn’t it?”

“It’s _delicious_ chicken, is what it is,” he declared.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Sure, dear,” he drawled sarcastically. “I’m torn between giving you the benefit of the doubt and learning from experience with the weird gooey appetizer.”

“The thing from before is called aspic,” Alexander informed him. “Not ‘weird gooey appetizer’.”

“Weird gooey appetizer is a more accurate description of it though.”

“Well,” Alexander huffed, “‘Bing Bing Bang Guns Hamburgers’ is a more accurate description of America, but you don’t see me going around calling America that.”

Thomas sighed dramatically. “You’re a dork,” he said fondly.

“Would you like some wine, Your Highness?” one of the waiters interjected into the silence, looking at Alexander.

Alexander waved a hand at the empty chalice. “Sure,” he smiled disarmingly.

The servant leaned in between Thomas and Alexander, obediently pouring the wine, before disappearing into the crowd of attendees. Thomas pitied them, just a little—it was hard enough to attend this wedding while he was the groom; he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to _work_ in this environment as well.

“Okay,” Thomas peered into the now-full wine glass. “Let’s see what vintage this is.”

He reached for the glass, only to find that Alexander’s fingers had already curled around it. Alexander stuck out his tongue, holding the glass close to his chest in a protective gesture that had Thomas snorting undignifiedly. “Find your own,” he told Thomas.

“That would require social interaction,” Thomas said. “That’s beyond my current capabilities.”

“Oh, yes,” Alexander put down the drink as he began to gesticulate. “The innocent attendees are in fact woeful and terrible monsters that can only be defeated through extensive small talk. However will you manage?”

“Like this,” Thomas said as he quickly snatched up Alexander’s drink. He held it just out of Alexander’s reach.

Alexander scrunched up his nose. "You took my drink," he pouted.

Thomas snickered. One of his hands found Alexander’s, squeezing it lightly. "Oh, stop it. You'll survive." He took a casual sip from Alexander's drink. "You'll hardly die from drinking my drink. If anything, it's—"

The rest of his words were drowned out by a choking sound. It took Thomas several seconds to realize that they were coming from him.

His throat burned. He was gasping for air, but there was none. Why couldn't he breathe?

Foam was gathering in his mouth. He realized, with a kind of grave certainty, that he was going to die. Funny, that, how seamlessly it was going. Was this how Mercutio has felt after being stabbed by Tybalt? Thomas had never understood how a person facing imminent death could still crack jokes. He thought he was beginning to.

He vaguely registered figures moving in front of his eyes, but he couldn't distinguish them. Their voices were all blurring together, and Thomas couldn't focus on one individual tone.

Besides, why bother? He was going to be dead in a matter of minutes anyway. He did entertain a brief notion of whether Alexander was one of these people. Was his beloved by his side, or had he already been whisked away by Burr after what was clearly an assassination attempt on the prince's life? Was Alexander fearful for Thomas, or was he secretly grateful that Thomas had chosen to switch their cups?

The fogginess became more pronounced, and Thomas closed his eyes, too tired to keep them open. All of his energy was being used on trying to survive.

One of the voices broke out of the chaos, becoming clearer, as if its owner had stepped closer. “—mas? Thomas?” the voice called out. Was that Alexander? Thomas couldn’t tell. He couldn’t remember the sound of Alexander’s voice. Why couldn’t he remember the sound of his husband’s voice? “Thomas, hang on. Please, love, hang on.” Someone squeezed his hand.

The music from before was playing. Why would the orchestra choose to play music now, of all times? Couldn’t they see that Thomas was dying?

God, he was dying. Actually literally _dying._ Being peripherally aware of the fact that it would one day happen was one thing, but to actually experience it— _  
_

The voice was fading away despite its increasingly more frantic attempts to make itself heard. It had been too loud, at any case. Or too quiet. Thomas could no longer tell.

He closed his eyes, taking one last breath. He exhaled slowly.

Beyond that, nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> And with that, I leave you, dear readers, to ponder the titular question: what comes next?


End file.
